UC-NRLF 


375 


Jl^-n— n_n_n_n_n_n_n-_n_n_n_n_n_n_n_n_n_n_n_n_ 


REESE  LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

*f-S3 

Class 

C 
^^^^^-^^ 


LOW  TIDE   ON   GRAND    PRE 
BALLADS    OF   LOST   HAVEN 


Low  Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

and 
Ballads  of  Lost  Haven 

By  Bliss  Carman 


Two  Volumes  in   One 


Boston 

Small  Maynard 

&  Company 

1905 


COPYRIGHT,  1893,  1894, 
BY  BLISS  CARMAN. 

COPYRIGHT,  1897,  BY 
LAMSON  WOLFFE  &  COMPANY. 

All  Rights  Reserved. 


FIRST  EDITION, 
NOVEMBER  25th,  1893. 

SECOND  EDITION, 
MARCH  isth,  1894. 

THIRD  EDITION, 
DECEMBER,  1895. 

FOURTH  EDITION, 
OCTOBER,  1899. 

FIFTH  EDITION, 
AUGUST,  1905. 


PREFATORY  NOTE  TO  THE  FIRST  EDITION 
OF  LOW  TIDE  ON  GRAND  PRE 

The  poems  in  this  volume  have  been  collected  with  reference 
to  their  similarity  of  tone.  They  are  variations  on  a  single 
theme,  more  or  less  aptly  suggested  by  the  title,  Low  TIDE  ON 
GRAND  PR£.  It  seemed  better  to  bring  together  between  the 
same  covers  only  those  pieces  of  work  which  happened  to  be  in 
the  same  key,  rather  than  to  publish  a  larger  book  of  more 
uncertain  aim. 

B.   C. 
By  Grand  Pre, 

September,  1893. 


fa  <  C 


PUBLISHERS'   NOTE 

In  reprinting  the  present  edition  of  Low  TIDE  ON  GRAND 
PRE,  the  text  of  the  first  edition  is  reproduced  without  altera- 
tion, except  for  a  line  in  "  The  Eavesdropper  "  and  the  addition 
of  "Marian  Drury,"  "  Golden  Rowan,"  and  "A  Sea  Drift,"  all 
of  these  changes  having  been  made  by  the  author  in  the  second 
edition  of  the  book  which  was  published  in  1894. 

The  original  edition  of  BALLADS  OF  LOST  HAVEN  having 
gone  out  of  print,  the  publishers  have  obtained  Mr.  Carman's 
permission  to  reprint  it  at  the  end  of  this  volume  in  its  original 
sequence  and  text,  believing  that  this  is  no  real  violation  of  his 
desire  to  group  together  those  pieces  of  his  work  "  which  happen 
to  be  in  the  same  key"  and  that  the  consequent  gain  to  his 
readers  will  be  an  appreciable  one. 

S.  M.  &  Co. 

Boston,  August, 


Low  Tide  on  Grand  Pre 
A  Book  of  Lyrics 


A   TABLE   OF   THE   CONTENTS   OF   THIS 
BOOK 

Low  TIDE  ON  GRAND  PRE,  Page  15 

WHY,  19 

THE  UNRETURNING,  22 

MARIAN  DRURY,  23 

A   WlNDFLOWER,   2J 

IN  LYRIC  SEASON,  29 

THE  PENSIONERS,  31 

AT  THE  VOICE  OF  A  BIRD,  35 

WHEN  THE  GUELDER  ROSES  BLOOM,  39 

SEVEN  THINGS,  52 

A  SEA  CHILD,  55 

PULVIS  ET  UMBRA,  56 

GOLDEN  ROWAN,  69 

THROUGH  THE  TWILIGHT,  72 

CARNATIONS  IN  WINTER,  74 


A  SEA  DRIFT,  76 
A  NORTHERN  VIGIL,  77 
THE  EAVESDROPPER,  85 
IN  APPLE  TIME,  89 
J/WANDERER,  91 

vAFOOT,    1 01 
f^VAYFARING,    Io6 

yJTHE  END  OF  THE  TRAIL,  115 
THE  VAGABONDS,  123 
WHITHER,  130 


LOW  TIDE  ON  GRAND  PRE 

THE  sun  goes  down,  and  over  all 
These  barren  reaches  by  the  tide 

Such  unelusive  glories  fall, 

I  almost  dream  they  yet  will  bide 
Until  the  coming  of  the  tide. 

And  yet  I  know  that  not  for  us, 
By  any  ecstasy  of  dream, 

He  lingers  to  keep  luminous 
A  little  while  the  grievous  stream, 
Which  frets,  uncomforted  of  dream — 


Low   Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

A  grievous  stream,  that  to  and  fro 
Athrough  the  fields  of  Acadie 

Goes  wandering,  as  if  to  know 
Why  one  beloved  face  should  be 
So  long  from  home  and  Acadie. 

Was  it  a  year  or  lives  ago 

We  took  the  grasses  in  our  hands, 

And  caught  the  summer  flying  low 
Over  the  waving  meadow  lands, 
And  held  it  there  between  our  hands  ? 

The  while  the  river  at  our  feet — 
A  drowsy  inland  meadow  stream — 

At  set  of  sun  the  after-heat 

Made  running  gold,  and  in  the  gleam 
We  freed  our  birch  upon  the  stream. 


16 


Low  Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

There  down  along  the  elms  at  dusk 
We  lifted  dripping  blade  to  drift, 

Through  twilight  scented  fine  like  musk, 
Where  night  and  gloom  awhile  uplift, 
Nor  sunder  soul  and  soul  adrift. 

And  that  we  took  into  our  hands 
Spirit  of  life  or  subtler  thing — 

Breathed  on  us  there,  and  loosed  the  bands 
Of  death,  and  taught  us,  whispering, 
The  secret  of  some  wonder-thing. 

Then  all  your  face  grew  light,  and  seemed 
To  hold  the  shadow  of  the  sun; 

The  evening  faltered,  and  I  deemed 
That  time  was  ripe,  and  years  had  done 
Their  wheeling  underneath  the  sun. 


Low  Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

So  all  desire  and  all  regret, 

And  fear  and  memory,  were  naught; 
One  to  remember  or  forget 

The  keen  delight  our  hands  had  caught; 

Morrow  and  yesterday  were  naught. 

The  night  has  fallen,  and  the  tide  .... 
Now  and  again  comes  drifting  home, 

Across  these  aching  barrens  wide, 
A  sigh  like  driven  wind  or  foam: 
In  grief  the  flood  is  bursting  home. 


18 


WHY 

FOR  a  name  unknown, 
Whose  fame  unblown 
Sleeps  in  the  hills 
For  ever  and  aye; 

For  her  who  hears 
The  stir  of  the  years 
Go  by  on  the  wind 
By  night  and  day; 

'9 


Low  Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

And  heeds  no  thing* 
Of  the  needs  of  spring, 
Of  autumn's  wonder 
Or  winter's  chill; 

For  one  who  sees 
The  great  sun  freeze, 
As  he  wanders  a-cold 
From  hill  to  hill; 

And  all  her  heart 
Is  a  woven  part 
Of  the  flurry  and  drift 
Of  whirling  snow; 


20 


Why 

For  the  sake  of  two 
Sad  eyes  and  true, 
And  the  old,  old  love 
So  long  ago. 


21 


THE  UNRETURNING 

THE  old  eternal  spring  once  more 
Comes  back  the  sad  eternal  way, 

With  tender  rosy  light  before 
The  going-out  of  day. 

The  great  white  moon  across  my  door 
A  shadow  in  the  twilight  stirs; 

But  now  forever  comes  no  more 
That  wondrous  look  of  Hers. 


22 


MARIAN   DRURY 

MARIAN  DRURY,  Marian  Drury, 

How  are  the  marshes  full  of  the  sea  ! 

Acadie  dreams  of  your  coming  home 

All  year  through,  and  her  heart  gets  free, 

Free  on  the  trail  of  the  wind  to  travel, 
Search  and  course  with  the  roving  tide, 

All  year  long  where  his  hands  unravel 
Blossom  and  berry  the  marshes  hide. 


Low  Tide  on  Grand  Prt 

Marian  Drury,  Marian  Drury, 

How  are  the  marshes  full  of  the  surge  ! 
April  over  the  Norland  now 

Walks  in  the  quiet  from  verge  to  verge. 

Burying,  brimming,  the  building  billows 
Fret  the  long  dikes  with  uneasy  foam. 

Drenched  with  gold  weather,  the  idling  willows 
Kiss  you  a  hand  from  the  Norland  home. 

,  ^Marian  Drury,  Marian  Drury, 

How  are  the  marshes  full  of  the  sun  I 
Blomidon  waits  for  your  coming  home, 
All  day  long  where  the  white  wings  run. 


Marian  Drury 

All  spring  through  they  falter  and  follow, 
Wander,  and  beckon  the  roving  tide, 

Wheel  and  float  with  the  veering  swallow, 
Lift  you  a  voice  from  the  blue  hillside. 

Marian  Drury,  Marian  Drury, 

How  are  the  marshes  full  of  the  rain  ! 

April  over  the  Norland  now 

Bugles  for  rapture^  and  rouses  pain, — 

Halts  before  the  forsaken  dwelling, 

Where  in  the  twilight,  too  spent  to  roam, 

Love,  whom  the  fingers  of  death  are  quelling, 
Cries  you  a  cheer  from  the  Norland  home. 


Low  Tide  on  Grand  Prt 

Marian  Drury,  Marian  Drury, 

How  are  the  marshes  filled  with  you  ! 

Grand  Pr£  dreams  of  your  coming  home,  — 
Dreams  while  the  rain  birds  all  night  through, 

Far  in  the  uplands  calling  to  win  you, 

Tease  the  brown  dusk  on  the  marshes  wide; 

And  never  the  burning  heart  within  you 
Stirs  in  your  sleep  by  the  roving  tide. 


26 


A  WINDFLOWER 

BETWEEN  the  roadside  and  the  wood, 
Between  the  dawning  and  the  dew, 

A  tiny  flower  before  the  sun, 
Ephemeral  in  time,  I  grew. 

And  there  upon  the  trail  of  spring, 
Not  death  nor  love  nor  any  name 

Known  among  men  in  all  their  lands 
Could  blur  the  wild  desire  with  shame. 


Low   Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

But  down  my  dayspan  of  the  year 
The  feet  of  straying  winds  came  by; 

And  all  my  trembling  soul  was  thrilled 
To  follow  one  lost  mountain  cry. 

And  then  my  heart  beat  once  and  broke 
To  hear  the  sweeping  rain  forebode 

Some  ruin  in  the  April  world, 

Between  the  woodside  and  the  road. 

To-night  can  bring  no  healing  now; 

The  calm  of  yesternight  is  gone; 
Surely  the  wind  is  but  the  wind, 

And  I  a  broken  waif  thereon. 


IN  LYRIC  SEASON 

THE  lyric  April  time  is  forth 

With  lyric  mornings,  frost  and  sun; 
From  leaguers  vast  of  night  undone 

Auroral  mild  new  stars  are  born. 

And  ever  at  the  year's  return, 
Along  the  valleys  gray  with  rime, 
Thou  leadest  as  of  old,  where  time 

Can  naught  but  follow  to  thy  sway. 

29 


Low  Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

The  trail  is  far  through  leagues  of  spring, 
And  long  the  quest  to  the  white  core 
Of  harvest  quiet,  yet  once  more 

I  gird  me  to  the  old  unrest. 

I  know  I  shall  not  ever  meet 
Thy  still  regard  across  the  year, 
And  yet  I  know  thou  wilt  draw  near, 

When  the  last  hour  of  pain  and  loss 

Drifts  out  to  slumber,  and  the  deeps 
Of  nightfall  feel  God's  hand  unbar 
His  lyric  April,  star  by  star, 

And  the  lost  twilight  land  reveal. 


THE   PENSIONERS 

WE  are  the  pensioners  of  Spring, 
And  take  the  largess  of  her  hand 

When  vassal  warder  winds  unbar 
The  wintry  portals  of  her  land; 

The  lonely  shadow-girdled  winds, 
Her  seraph  almoners,  who  keep 

This  little  life  in  flesh  and  bone 

With  meagre  portions  of  white  sleep. 


Low  Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

Then  all  year  through  with  starveling  care 
We  go  on  some  fool's  idle  quest, 

And  eat  her  bread  and  wine  in  thrall 
To  a  fool's  shame  with  blind  unrest. 

Until  her  April  train  goes  by, 
And  then  because  we  are  the  kin 

Of  every  hill  flower  on  the  hill 
We  must  arise  and  walk  therein. 

Because  her  heart  as  our  own  heart, 
Knowing  the  same  wild  upward  stir, 

Beats  joyward  by  eternal  laws, 
We  must  arise  and  go  with  her; 


The  Pensioners 

Forget  we  are  not  where  old  joys 

Return  when  dawns  and  dreams  retire; 

Make  grief  a  phantom  of  regret, 
And  fate  the  henchman  of  desire; 

Divorce  unreason  from  delight; 

Learn  how  despair  is  uncontrol, 
Failure  the  shadow  of  remorse, 

And  death  a  shudder  of  the  soul. 

Yea,  must  we  triumph  when  she  leads, 

A  little  rain  before  the  sun, 
A  breath  of  wind  on  the  road's  dust, 

The  sound  of  trammeled  brooks  undone, 


33 


Low  Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

Along  red  glinting  willow  stems 

The  year's  white  prime,  on  bank  and  stream 
The  haunting  cadence  of  no  song 

And  vivid  wanderings  of  dream, 

A  range  of  low  blue  hills,  the  far 
First  whitethroat's  ecstasy  unfurled: 

And  we  are  overlords  of  change, 
In  the  glad  morning  of  the  world, 

Though  we  should  fare  as  they  whose  life 
Time  takes  within  his  hands  to  wring 

Between  the  winter  and  the  sea, 
The  weary  pensioners  of  Spring. 


34 


AT  THE   VOICE  OF  A  BIRD 

Consurgent  ad  vocem  -volucris. 

CALL  to  me,  thrush, 
When  night  grows  dim, 

When  dreams  unform 
And  death  is  far! 

When  hoar  dews  flush 
On  dawn's  rathe  brim, 

Wake  me  to  hear 

Thy  wildwood  charm, 


35 


Low  Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

As  a  lone  rush 

Astir  in  the  slim 
White  stream  where  sheer 

Blue  mornings  are. 

Stir  the  keen  hush 

On  twilight's  rim 
When  my  own  star 

Is  white  and  clear. 

Fly  low  to  brush 
Mine  eyelids  grim, 

Where  sleep  and  storm 
Will  set  their  bar; 


At  the   Voice  of  a  Bird 

For  God  shall  crush 
Spring  balm  for  him, 

Stark  on  his  bier 
Past  fault  or  harm, 

Who  once,  as  flush 
Of  day  might  skim 

The  dusk,  afar 
In  sleep  shall  hear 

Thy  song's  cool  rush 

With  joy  rebrim 
The  world,  and  calm 

The  deep  with  cheer. 


37 


Low   Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

Then,  Heartsease,  hush  ! 

If  sense  grow  dim, 
Desire  shall  steer 

Us  home  from  far. 


WHEN  THE  GUELDER  ROSES  BLOOM 

WHEN  the  Guelder  roses  bloom, 
Love,  the  vagrant,  wanders  home. 

Love,  that  died  so  long  ago, 

As  we  deemed,  in  dark  and  snow, 

Comes  back  to  the  door  again, 
Guendolen,  Guendolen. 


39 


Low   Tide  on   Grand  Pre 

In  his  hands  a  few  bright  flowers, 
Gathered  in  the  earlier  hours, 

Speedwell-blue,  and  poppy-red, 
Withered  in  the  sun  and  dead, 

With  a  history  to  each, 

Are  more  eloquent  than  speech. 

In  his  eyes  the  welling  tears 
Plead  against  the  lapse  of  years. 


40 


When  the  Guelder  Roses  Bloom 

And  that  mouth  we  knew  so  well, 
Hath  a  pilgrim's  tale  to  tell. 

Hear  his  litany  again  : 

"  Guendolen,  Guendolen  ! " 

"  No,  love,  no,  thou  art  a  ghost ! 
Love  long  since  in  night  was  lost. 

"  Thou  art  but  the  shade  of  him, 
For  thine  eves  are  sad  and  dim." 


£ES'  ,X 

JFO*^!' 


Low  Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

"  Nay,  but  they  will  shine  once  more, 
Glad  and  brighter  than  before, 

"If  thou  bring  me  but  again 
To  my  mother  Guendolen  ! 

"  These  dark  flowers  are  for  thee, 
Gathered  by  the  lonely  sea. 

•'  And  these  singing  shells  for  her 
Who  first  called  me  wanderer, 


When  the  Guelder  Roses  Bloom 

"  In  whose  beauty  glad  I  grew, 
When  this  weary  life  was  new." 

Hear  him  raving  !     "  It  is  I. 
Love  once  born  can  never  die." 

"  Thou,  poor  love,  thou  art  gone  mad 
With  the  hardships  thou  hast  had. 

"  True,  it  is  the  spring  of  year, 
But  thy  mother  is  not  here. 


43 


Low   Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

"  True,  the  Guelder  roses  bloom 
As  long  since  about  this  room, 

"Where  thy  blessed  self  was  born 
In  the  early  golden  morn, 

"  But  the  years  are  dead,  good  lack  ! 
Ah,  love,  why  hast  thou  come  back, 

"  Pleading  at  the  door  again, 
'  Guendolen,  Guendolen  '  ?  " 


44 


When  the  Guelder  Roses  Bloom 

When  the  Guelder  roses  bloom, 
And  the  vernal  stars  resume 

Their  old  purple  sweep  and  range, 
I  can  hear  a  whisper  strange 

As  the  wind  gone  daft  again, 
"  Guendolen,  Guendolen  !  " 

"  When  the  Guelder  roses  blow, 
Love  that  died  so  long  ago, 


45 


Low  Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

"  Why  wilt  thou  return  so  oft, 
With  that  whisper  sad  and  soft 

"On  thy  pleading  lips  again, 
'Guendolen,  Guendolen ' !  " 

Still  the  Guelder  roses  bloom. 
And  the  sunlight  fills  the  room, 

Where  love's  shadow  at  the  door 
Falls  upon  the  dusty  floor. 


When  the  Guelder  Roses  Bloom 

And  his  eyes  are  sad  and  grave 
With  the  tenderness  they  crave, 

Seeing  in  the  broken  rhyme 
The  significance  of  time, 

Wondrous  eyes  that  know  not  sin 
From  his  brother  death,  wherein 

I  can  see  thy  look  again, 
Guendolen,  Guendolen. 


47 


Low   Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

And  love  with  no  more  to  say, 
In  this  lovely  world  to-day 

Where  the  Guelder  roses  bloom, 
Than  the  record  on  a  tomb, 

Only  moves  his  lips  again, 
"  Guendolen,  Guendolen  ! " 

Then  he  passes  up  the  road 
From  this  dwelling,  where  he  bode 


When  the  Guelder  Roses  Bloom 

In  the  by-gone  years.     And  still, 
As  he  mounts  the  sunset  hill 

Where  the  Guelder  roses  blow 
With  their  drifts  of  summer  snow, 

I  can  hear  him,  like  one  dazed 
At  a  phantom  he  has  raised, 

Murmur  o'er  and  o'er  again, 
"  Guendolen,  Guendolen  !  " 


49 


Low   Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

And  thus  every  year,  I  know, 
When  the  Guelder  roses  blow, 

Love  will  wander  by  my  door, 
Till  the  spring  returns  no  more  ; 

Till  no  more  I  can  withstand, 
But  must  rise  and  take  his  hand 

Through  the  countries  of  the  night, 
Where  he  walks  by  his  own  sight, 


When  the  Guelder  Roses  Bloom 

To  the  mountains  of  a  dawn 
That  has  never  yet  come  on, 

Out  of  this  fair  land  of  doom 
Where  the  Guelder  roses  bloom, 

Till  I  come  to  thee  again, 
Guendolen,  Guendolen. 


SEVEN   THINGS 

THE  fields  of  earth  are  sown 

From  the  hand  of  the  striding  rain, 
And  kernels  of  joy  are  strewn 

Abroad  for  the  harrow  of  pain. 


The  first  song- sparrow  brown 
That  wakes  the  earliest  spring, 

When  time  and  fear  sink  down, 
And  death  is  a  fabled  thing. 


Seven   Things 


ii. 

The  stealing  of  that  first  dawn 

Over  the  rosy  brow, 
When  thy  soul  said,  "  World,  fare  on, 

For  Heaven  is  here  and  now!  ' 

in. 

The  crimson  shield  of  the  sun 

On  the  wall  of  this  House  of  Doom, 

With  the  garb  of  war  undone 
At  last  in  the  narrow  room. 

IV. 

A  heart  that  abides  to  the  end, 

As  the  hills  for  sureness  and  peace, 

And  is  neither  weary  to  wend 
Nor  reluctant  at  last  of  release. 
53 


Loiv   Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

v. 

Thy  mother's  cradle  croon 
To  haunt  thee  over  the  deep, 

Out  of  the  land  of  Boon 
Into  the  land  of  Sleep. 

VI. 

The  sound  of  the  sea  in  storm, 

Hearing  its  captain  cry, 
When  the  wild,  white  riders  form, 

And  the  Ride  to  the  Dark  draws  nigh. 

VII. 

But  last  and  best,  the  urge 

Of  the  great  world's  desire, 
Whose  being  from  core  to  verge 

Only  attains  to  aspire. 
54 


A  SEA  CHILD 

THE  lover  of  child  Marjory 

Had  one  white  hour  of  life  brim  full; 
Now  the  old  nurse,  the  rocking  sea, 

Hath  him  to  lull. 

The  daughter  of  child  Marjory 

Hath  in  her  veins,  to  beat  and  run, 

The  glad  indomitable  sea, 
The  strong  white  sun. 


55 


PULVIS  ET  UMBRA 

THERE  is  dust  upon  my  fingers, 
Pale  gray  dust  of  beaten  wings, 

Where  a  great  moth  came  and  settled 
From  the  night's  blown  winnowings. 

Harvest  with  her  low  red  planets 

Wheeling  over  Arrochar  ; 
And  the  lonely  hopeless  calling 

Of  the  bell-buoy  on  the  bar, 


56 


Pulvis  et  Umbra 

Where  the  sea  with  her  old  secret 
Moves  in  sleep  and  cannot  rest. 

From  that  dark  beyond  my  doorway, 
Silent  the  unbidden  guest 

Came  and  tarried,  fearless,  gentle, 
Vagrant  of  the  starlit  gloom, 

One  frail  waif  of  beauty  fronting 
Immortality  and  doom  ; 

Through  the  chambers  of  the  twilight 
Roaming  from  the  vast  outland, 

Resting  for  a  thousand  heart-beats 
In  the  hollow  of  my  hand. 


57 


Low   Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

"  Did  the  volley  of  a  thrush-song 

Lodge  among  some  leaves  and  dew 
Hillward,  then  across  the  gloaming 
This  dark  mottled  thing  was  you  ? 

"  Or  is  my  mute  guest  whose  coming 

So  unheralded  befell 
From  the  border  wilds  of  dreamland, 
Only  whimsy  Ariel, 

"  Gleaning  with  the  wind,  in  furrows 

Lonelier  than  dawn  to  reap, 

Dust  and  shadow  and  forgetting, 

Frost  and  reverie  and  sleep  ? 


Pulvis  et  Umbra 

"  In  the  hush  when  Cleopatra 

Felt  the  darkness  reel  and  cease, 
Was  thy  soul  a  wan  blue  lotus 
Laid  upon  her  lips  for  peace  ? 

"  And  through  all  the  years  that  wayward 

Passion  in  one  mortal  breath, 
Making  thee  a  thing  of  silence, 
Made  thee  as  the  lords  of  death  ? 

"  Or  did  goblin  men  contrive  thee 

In  the  forges  of  the  hills 
Out  of  thistle-drift  and  sundown 
Lost  amid  their  tawny  rills, 


59 


Low  Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

"  Every  atom  on  their  anvil 

Beaten  fine  and  bolted  home, 
Every  quiver  wrought  to  cadence 
From  the  rapture  of  a  gnome  ? 

"  Then  the  lonely  mountain  wood-wind, 

Straying  up  from  dale  to  dale, 
Gave  thee  spirit,  free  forever, 
Thou  immortal  and  so  frail  ! 

"  Surely  thou  art  not  that  sun-bright 

Psyche,  hoar  with  age,  and  hurled 
On  the  northern  shore  of  Lethe, 
To  this  wan  Auroral  world  ! 


60 


Pulvis  et  Umbra 

"  Ghost  of  Psyche,  uncompanioned, 

Are  the  yester-years  all  done  ? 
Have  the  oars  of  Charon  ferried 
All  thy  playmates  from  the  sun  ? 

"  In  thy  wings  the  beat  and  breathing 

Of  the  wind  of  life  abides, 
And  the  night  whose  sea-gray  cohorts 
Swing  the  stars  up  with  the  tides. 

"  Did  they  once  make  sail  and  wander 
Through  the  trembling  harvest  sky, 
Where  the  silent  Northern  streamers 
Change  and  rest  not  till  they  die  ? 


61 


Low   Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

11  Or  from  clouds  that  tent  and  people 

The  blue  firmamental  waste, 
Did  they  learn  the  noiseless  secret 
Of  eternity's  unhaste? 

"  Where  learned  they  to  rove  and  loiter, 

By  the  margin  of  what  sea  ? 
Was  it  with  outworn  Demeter, 
Searching  for  Persephone  ? 

"  Or  did  that  girl-queen  behold  thee 

In  the  fields  of  moveless  air  ? 
Did  these  wings  which  break  no  whisper 
Brush  the  poppies  in  her  hair  ? 


62 


Pulvis  et  Umbra 

"  Is  it  thence  they  wear  the  pulvil — 

Ash  of  ruined  days  and  sleep, 
And  the  two  great  orbs  of  splendid 
Melting  sable  deep  on  deep  ! 

"  Pilot  of  the  shadow  people, 

Steering  whither  by  what  star 
Hast  thou  come  to  hapless  port  here, 
Thou  gray  ghost  of  Arrochar  ? " 

For  man  walks  the  world  with  mourning 
Down  to  death,  and  leaves  no  trace, 

With  the  dust  upon  his  forehead, 
And  the  shadow  in  his  face. 


Low   Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

Pillared  dust  and  fleeing  shadow 
As  the  roadside  wind  goes  by, 

And  the  fourscore  years  that  vanish 
In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye. 

Beauty,  the  fine  frosty  trace-work 
Of  some  breath  upon  the  pane  ; 

Spirit,  the  keen  wintry  moonlight 
Flashed  thereon  to  fade  again. 

Beauty,  the  white  clouds  a-building 
When  God  said  and  it  was  done  ; 

Spirit,  the  sheer  brooding  rapture 
Where  no  mid-day  brooks  no  sun. 


Pulvis  et  Umbra 

So.  And  here,  the  open  casement 
Where  my  fellow-mate  goes  free  ; 

Eastward,  the  untrodden  star-road 
And  the  long  wind  on  the  sea. 

What's  to  hinder  but  I  follow 
This  my  gypsy  guide  afar, 

When  the  bugle  rouses  slumber 
Sounding  taps  on  Arrochar  ? 

"  Where,  my  brother,  wends  the  by-way, 

To  what  bourne  beneath  what  sun, 
Thou  and  I  are  set  to  travel 

Till  the  shifting  dream  be  done  ? 


Low   Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

"  Comrade  of  the  dusk,  forever 

I  pursue  the  endless  way 
Of  the  dust  and  shadow  kindred, 
Thou  art  perfect  for  a  day. 

"  Yet  from  beauty  marred  and  broken, 

Joy  and  memory  and  tears, 
I  shall  crush  the  clearer  honey 
In  the  harvest  of  the  years. 

"  Thou  art  faultless  as  a  flower 

Wrought  of  sun  and  wind  and  snow, 
I  survive  the  fault  and  failure. 
The  wise  Fates  will  have  it  so. 


66 


Pulvis  et  Umbra 

"  For  man  walks  the  world  in  twilight, 

But  the  morn  shall  wipe  all  trace 
Of  the  dust  from  off  his  forehead, 
And  the  shadow  from  his  face. 

"  Cheer  thee  on,  my  tidings-bearer  ! 

All  the  valor  of  the  North 
Mounts  as  soul  from  flesh  escaping 

Through  the  night,  and  bids  thee  forth. 

"  Go,  and  when  thou  hast  discovered 

Her  whose  dark  eyes  match  thy  wings, 
Bid  that  lyric  heart  beat  lighter 
For  the  joy  thy  beauty  brings." 


Low   Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

Then  I  leaned  far  out  and  lifted 
My  light  guest  up,  and  bade  speed 

On  the  trail  where  no  one  tarries 
That  wayfarer  few  will  heed. 

Pale  gray  dust  upon  my  fingers  ; 

And  from  this  my  cabined  room 
The  white  soul  of  eager  message 

Racing  seaward  in  the  gloom. 

Far  off  shore,  the  sweet  low  calling 
Of  the  bell-buoy  on  the  bar, 

Warning  night  of  dawn  and  ruin 
Lonelily  on  Arrochar. 


GOLDEN   ROWAN 

SHE  lived  where  the  mountains  go  down  to  the  sea, 
And  river  and  tide  confer. 

Golden  Rowan,  in  Menalowan, 
Was  the  name  they  gave  to  her. 

She  had  the  soul  no  circumstance 
Can  hurry  or  defer. 

Golden  Rowan,  of  Menalowan, 
How  time  stood  still  for  her! 


69 


Low  Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

Her  playmates  for  their  lovers  grew, 
But  that  shy  wanderer, 

Golden  Rowan,  of  Menalowan, 
Knew  love  was  not  for  her. 

Hers  was  the  love  of  wilding  things ; 
To  hear  a  squirrel  chir 

In  the  golden  rowan,  of  Menalowan, 
Was  joy  enough  for  her. 

She  sleeps  on  the  hill  with  the  lonely  sun, 
Where  in  the  days  that  were, 

The  golden  rowan,  of  Menalowan, 
So  often  shadowed  her. 


Golden  Rowan 

The  scarlet  fruit  will  come  to  fill, 
The  scarlet  spring  to  stir 

The  golden  rowan,  of  Menalowan, 
And  wake  no  dream  for  her. 

Only  the  wind  is  over  her  grave, 
For  mourner  and  comforter; 

And  "  Golden  Rowan,  of  Menalowan," 
Is  all  we  know  of  her. 


THROUGH  THE  TWILIGHT 

THE  red  vines  bar  my  window  way; 

The  Autumn  sleeps  beside  his  fire, 
For  he  has  sent  this  fleet-foot  day 
A  year's  march  back  to  bring  to  me 

One  face  whose  smile  is  my  desire, 
Its  light  my  star. 

Surely  you  will  come  near  and  speak, 

This  calm  of  death  from  the  day  to  sever  ! 
And  so  I  shall  draw  down  your  cheek 
Close  to  my  face — So  close  ! — and  know 
God's  hand  between  our  hands  forever 
Will  set  no  bar. 


Low  Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

Before  the  dusk  falls — even  now 

I  know  your  step  along  the  gravel, 
And  catch  your  quiet  poise  of  brow, 
And  wait  so  long  till  you  turn  the  latch ! 
Is  the  way  so  hard  you  had  to  travel  ? 
Is  the  land  so  far  ? 

The  dark  has  shut  your  eyes  from  mine, 

But  in  this  hush  of  brooding  weather 
A  gleam  on  twilight's  gathering  line 
Has  riven  the  barriers  of  dream  : 
Soul  of  my  soul,  we  are  together 
As  the  angels  are  ! 


73 


CARNATIONS  IN  WINTER 

YOUR  carmine  flakes  of  bloom  to-night 
The  fire  of  wintry  sunsets  hold  ; 

Again  in  dreams  you  burn  to  light 
A  far  Canadian  garden  old. 

The  blue  north  summer  over  it 
Is  bland  with  long  ethereal  days  ; 

The  gleaming  martins  wheel  and  flit 
Where  breaks  your  sun  down  orient  ways. 


74 


Low  Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

There,  when  the  gradual  twilight  falls, 
Through  quietudes  of  dusk  afar, 

Hermit  antiphonal  hermit  calls 

From  hills  below  the  first  pale  star. 

Then  in  your  passionate  love's  foredoom 
Once  more  your  spirit  stirs  the  air, 

And  you  are  lifted  through  the  gloom 
To  warm  the  coils  of  her  dark  hair. 


75 


A   SEA-DRIFT 

As  the  seaweed  swims  the  sea 

In  the  ruin  after  storm, 
Sunburnt  memories  of  thee 

Through  the  twilight  float  and  form. 

And  desire,  when  thou  art  gone, 
Roves  his  desolate  domain, 

As  the  meadow-birds  at  dawn 
Haunt  the  spaces  of  the  rain. 


A  NORTHERN  VIGIL 

HERE  by  the  gray  north  sea, 
In  the  wintry  heart  of  the  wild, 

Comes  the  old  dream  of  thee, 
Guendolen,  mistress  and  child. 

The  heart  of  the  forest  grieves 
In  the  drift  against  my  door; 

A  voice  is  under  the  eaves, 
A  footfall  on  the  floor. 


77 


Low   Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

Threshold,  mirror  and  hall, 
Vacant  and  strangely  aware, 

Wait  for  their  soul's  recall 
With  the  dumb  expectant  air. 

Here  when  the  smouldering  west 
Burns  down  into  the  sea, 

I  take  no  heed  of  rest 

And  keep  the  watch  for  thee. 

I  sit  by  the  fire  and  hear 
The  restless  wind  go  by, 

On  the  long  dirge  and  drear, 
Under  the  low  bleak  sky. 


A  Northern    Vigil 

When  day  puts  out  to  sea 

And  night  makes  in  for  land, 

There  is  no  lock  for  thee, 
Each  door  awaits  thy  hand  ! 

When  night  goes  over  the  hill 
And  dawn  comes  down  the  ,dale, 

It's  O  for  the  wild  sweet  will 
That  shall  no  more  prevail  ! 

When  the  zenith  moon  is  round, 
And  snow-wraiths  gather  and  run, 

And  there  is  set  no  bound 
To  love  beneath  the  sun, 


79 


Low  Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

O  wayward  will,  come  near 
The  old  mad  willful  way, 

The  soft  mouth  at  my  ear 
With  words  too  sweet  to  say  ! 

Come,  for  the  night  is  cold, 
The  ghostly  moonlight  fills 

Hollow  and  rift  and  fold 
Of  the  eerie  Ardise  hills  ! 

The  windows  of  my  room 
Are  dark  with  bitter  frost, 

The  stillness  aches  with  doom 
Of  something  loved  and  lost. 


A  Northern 


Outside,  the  great  blue  star 
Burns  in  the  ghostland  pale, 

Where  giant  Algebar 

Holds  on  the  endless  trail. 

Come,  for  the  years  are  long, 
And  silence  keeps  the  door, 

Where  shapes  with  the  shadows  throng 
The  firelit  chamber  floor. 

Come,  for  thy  kiss  was  warm, 
With  the  red  embers'  glare 

Across  thy  folding  arm 
And  dark  tumultuous  hair  ! 


81 


Low   Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

And  though  thy  coming  rouse 
The  sleep-cry  of  no  bird, 

The  keepers  of  the  house 
Shall  tremble  at  thy  word. 

Come,  for  the  soul  is  free  ! 

In  all  the  vast  dreamland 
There  is  no  lock  for  thee, 

Each  door  awaits  thy  hand. 

Ah,  not  in  dreams  at  all, 
Fleering,  perishing,  dim, 

But  thy  old  self,  supple  and  tall, 
Mistress  and  child  of  whim  1 


A  Northern   Vigil 

The  proud  imperious  guise, 

Impetuous  and  serene, 
The  sad  mysterious  eyes, 

And  dignity  of  mien  ! 

Yea,  wilt  thou  not  return, 

When  the  late  hill-winds  veer, 

And  the  bright  hill-flowers  burn 
With  the  reviving  year? 

When  April  comes,  and  the  sea 

Sparkles  as  if  it  smiled, 
Will  they  restore  to  me 

My  dark  Love,  empress  and  child  ? 


Low   Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

The  curtains  seem  to  part; 

A  sound  is  on  the  stair, 
As  if  at  the  last     ...     I  start; 

Only  the  wind  is  there. 

Lo,  now  far  on  the  hills 

The  crimson  fumes  uncurled, 

Where  the  caldron  mantles  and  spills 
Another  dawn  on  the  world  ! 


THE  EAVESDROPPER 

IN  a  still  room  at  hush  of  dawn, 
My  Love  and  I  lay  side  by  side 

And  heard  the  roaming  forest  wind 
Stir  in  the  paling  autumn-tide. 

I  watched  her  earth-brown  eyes  grow  glad 
Because  the  round  day  was  so  fair; 

While  memories  of  reluctant  night 
Lurked  in  the  blue  dusk  of  her  hair. 


Low   Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

Outside,  a  yellow  maple  tree, 
Shifting  upon  the  silvery  blue 

With  tiny  multitudinous  sound, 

Rustled  to  let  the  sunlight  through. 

The  livelong  day  the  elvish  leaves 

Danced  with  their  shadows  on  the  floor; 

And  the  lost  children  of  the  wind 

Went  straying  homeward  by  our  door. 

And  all  the  swarthy  afternoon 

We  watched  the  great  deliberate  sun 

Walk  through  the  crimsoned  hazy  world, 
Counting  his  hilltops  one  by  one. 


86 


The  Eavesdropper 

Then  as  the  purple  twilight  came 

And  touched  the  vines  along  our  eaves, 

Another  Shadow  stood  without 

And  gloomed  the  dancing  of  the  leaves. 

The  silence  fell  on  my  Love's  lips; 

Her  great  brown  eyes  were  veiled  and  sad 
With  pondering  some  maze  of  dream, 

Though  all  the  splendid  year  was  glad. 

Restless  and  vague  as  a  gray  wind 

Her  heart  had  grown,  she  knew  not  why. 

But  hurrying  to  the  open  door, 
Against  the  verge  of  western  sky 


Low   Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

I  saw  retreating  on  the  hills, 
Looming  and  sinister  and  black, 

The  stealthy  figure  swift  and  huge 
Of  One  who  strode  and  looked  not  back. 


IN  APPLE  TIME 

THE  apple  harvest  days  are  here, 
The  boding  apple  harvest  days, 
And  down  the  flaming  valley  ways, 

The  foresters  of  time  draw  near. 

Through  leagues  of  bloom  I  went  with  Spring, 
To  call  you  on  the  slopes  of  morn, 
Where  in  imperious  song  is  borne 

The  wild  heart  of  the  goldenwing. 


Low   Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

I  roamed  through  alien  summer  lands, 
I  sought  your  beauty  near  and  far; 
To-day,  where  russet  shadows  are, 

I  hold  your  face  between  my  hands. 

On  runnels  dark  by  slopes  of  fern, 
The  hazy  undern  sleeps  in  sun. 
Remembrance  and  desire,  undone, 

From  old  regret  to  dreams  return. 

The  apple  harvest  time  is  here, 
The  tender  apple  harvest  time; 
A  sheltering  calm,  unknown  at  prime, 

Settles  upon  the  brooding  year. 


90 


WANDERER 


WANDERER,  wanderer,  whither  away  ? 
What  saith  the  morning  unto  thee  ? 
"  Wanderer,  wanderer,  hither,  come  hither, 
Into  the  eld  of  the  East  with  me! " 

Saith  the  wide  wind  of  the  low  red  morning, 

Making  in  from  the  gray  rough  sea. 
"  Wanderer,  come,  of  the  footfall  weary, 

And  heavy  at  heart  as  the  sad-heart  sea. 


Low   Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

For  long  ago,  when  the  world  was  making, 
I  walked  through  Eden  with  God  for  guide; 

And  since  that  time  in  my  heart  forever 
His  calm  and  wisdom  and  peace  abide. 

I  am  thy  spirit  and  thy  familiar, 
Child  of  the  teeming  earth's  unrest! 

Before  God's  joy  upon  gloom  begot  thee, 

I  had  hungered  and  searched  and  ended  the  quest. 

I  sit  by  the  roadside  wells  of  knowledge; 

I  haunt  the  streams  of  the  springs  of  thought; 
But  because  my  voice  is  the  voice  of  silence, 

The  heart  within  thee  regardeth  not. 


Wanderer 

"  Yet  I  await  thee,  assured,  unimpatient, 

Till  thy  small  tumult  of  striving  be  past. 
How  long,  O  wanderer,  wilt  thou  a-weary, 
Keep  thee  afar  from  my  arms  at  the  last  ? " 

ii 
Wanderer,  wanderer,  whither  away  ? 

What  saith  the  high  noon  unto  thee  ? 
•<  Wanderer,  wanderer,  hither,  turn  hither, 
Far  to  the  burning  South  with  me," 

Saith  the  soft  wind  on  the  high  June  headland, 

Sheering  up  from  the  summer  sea, 
"  While  the  implacable  warder,  Oblivion, 
Sleeps  on  the  marge  of  a  foamless  sea! 


93 


Low    Tide  on   Grand  Pre 

"  Come  where  the  urge  of  desire  availeth, 

And  no  fear  follows  the  children  of  men; 
For  a  handful  of  dust  is  the  only  heirloom 
The  morrow  bequeaths  to  its  morrow  again. 

"  Touch  and  feel  how  the  flesh  is  perfect 
Beyond  the  compass  of  dream  to  be! 
1  Bone  of  my  bone,'  said  God  to  Adam; 
<  Core  of  my  core,'  say  I  to  thee. 

"  Look  and  see  how  the  form  is  goodly 
Beyond  the  reach  of  desire  and  art! 
For  he  who  fashioned  the  world  so  easily 
Laughed  in  his  sleeve  as  he  walked  apart. 


Wanderer 

"  Therefore,  O  wanderer,  cease  from  desiring; 

Take  the  wide  province  of  seaway  and  sun! 
Here  for  the  infinite  quench  of  thy  craving, 
Infinite  yearning  and  bliss  are  one." 

in 

Wanderer,  wanderer,  whither  away  ? 
What  saith  the  evening  unto  thee  ? 
"  Wanderer,  wanderer,  hither,  haste  hither, 
Into  the  glad-heart  West  with  me!  " 

Saith  the  strong  wind  of  the  gold-green  twilight, 

Gathering  out  of  the  autumn  hills, 
"  I  am  the  word  of  the  world's  first  dreamer 

Who  woke  when  Freedom  walked  on  the  hills. 


95 


Low  Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

"  And  the  secret  triumph  from  daring  to  doing, 

From  musing  to  marble,  I  will  be, 
Till  the  last  fine  fleck  of  the  world  is  finished, 
And  Freedom  shall  walk  alone  by  the  sea. 

"  Who  is  thy  heart's  lord,  who  is  thy  hero  ? 

Bruce  or  Caesar  or  Charlemagne, 
Hannibal,  Olaf,  Alaric,  Roland  ? 

Dare  as  they  dared  and  the  deed's  done  again! 

"  Here  where  they  come  of  the  habit  immortal, 
By  the  open  road  to  the  land  of  the  Name, 
Splendor  and  homage  and  wealth  await  thee 
Of  builded  cities  and  bruited  fame. 


Wanderer 

Let  loose  the  conquering  toiler  within  thee; 

Know  the  large  rapture  of  deeds  begun! 
The  joy  of  the  hand  that  hews  for  beauty 

Is  the  dearest  solace  beneath  the  sun." 

IV 

Wanderer,  wanderer,  whither  away  ? 

What  saith  the  midnight  unto  thee  ? 
Wanderer,  wanderer,  hither  turn  home, 

Back  to  thy  North  at  last  to  me! " 

Saith  the  great  forest  wind  and  lonely, 
Out  of  the  stars  and  the  wintry  hills. 

Weary,  bethink  thee  of  rest,  and  remember 
Thy  waiting  auroral  Ardise  hills! 


97 


Low   Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

"  Was  it  not  I,  when  thy  mother  bore  thee 

In  the  sweet,  solemn  April  night, 
Took  thee  safe  in  my  arms  to  fondle, 
Filled  thy  dream  with  the  old  delight  ? 

"  Told  thee  tales  of  more  marvelous  summers 

Of  the  far  away  and  the  long  ago, 
Made  thee  my  own  nurse-child  forever 
In  the  tender  dear  dark  land  of  the  snow  ? 

"  Have  I  not  rocked  thee,  have  I  not  lulled  thee, 
Crooned  thee  in  forest,  and  cradled  in  foam, 
Then  with  a  smile  from  the  hearthstone  of  child- 
hood 

Bade  thee  farewell  when  thy  heart  bade  thee 
roam? 


Wanderer 

Ah,  my  wide -wanderer,  thou  blessed  vagrant, 
Dear  will  thy  footfall  be  nearing  my  door. 

How  the  glad  tears  will  give  vent  at  thy  coming, 
Wayward  or  sad-heart  to  wander  no  more!" 

v 
Morning  and  midday  I  wander,  and  evening, 

April  and  harvest  and  golden  fall; 
Seaway  or  hillward,  taut  sheet  or  saddle-bow, 

Only  the  night  wind  brings  solace  at  all. 

Then  when  the  tide  of  all  being  and  beauty 
Ebbs  to  the  utmost  before  the  first  dawn, 

Comes  the  still  voice  of  the  morrow  revealing 
Inscrutable  valorous  hope — and  is  gone. 


99 


Low   Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

Therefore  is  joy  more  than  sorrow,  foreseeing 
The  lust  of  the  mind  and  the  lure  of  the  eye 

And  the  pride  of  the  hand  have  their  hour  of 

triumph, 
But  the  dream  of  the  heart  will  endure  by-and-by. 


zoo 


AFOOT 

THERE'S  a  garden  in  the  South 
Where  the  early  violets  come, 

Where  they  strew  the  floor  of  April 
With  their  purple,  bloom  by  bloom. 

There  the  tender  peach-trees  blow, 
Pink  against  the  red  brick  wall, 

And  the  hand  of  twilight  hushes 
The  rain-children's  least  footfall, 


101 


Low  Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

Till  at  midnight  I  can  hear 
The  dark  Mother  croon  and  lean 

Close  above  me.     And  her  whisper 
Bids  the  vagabonds  convene. 

Then  the  glad  and  wayward  heart 
Dreams  a  dream  it  must  obey  ; 

And  the  wanderer  within  me 
Stirs  a  foot  and  will  not  stay. 

I  would  journey  far  and  wide 
Through  the  provinces  of  spring, 

Where  the  gorgeous  white  azaleas 
Hear  the  sultry  yorlin  sing. 


102 


Afoot 

I  would  wander  all  the  hills 

Where  my  fellow-vagrants  wend, 

Following  the  trails  of  shadows 
To  the  country  where  they  end. 

Well  I  know  the  gypsy  kin, 
Roving  foot  and  restless  hand, 

And  the  eyes  in  dark  elusion 

Dreaming  down  the  summer  land. 

On  the  frontier  of  desire 
I  will  drink  the  last  regret, 

And  then  forth  beyond  the  morrow 
Where  I  may  but  half  forget. 


103 


Low   Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

So  another  year  shall  pass, 

Till  some  noon  the  gardener  Sun 

Wanders  forth  to  lay  his  finger 
On  the  peach-buds  one  by  one. 

And  the  Mother  there  once  more 
Will  rewhisper  her  dark  word, 

That  my  brothers  all  may  wonder, 
Hearing  then  as  once  I  heard. 

There  will  come  the  whitethroat's  cry, 
That  far  lonely  silver  strain, 

Piercing,  like  a  sweet  desire, 
The  seclusion  of  the  rain. 


104 


Afoot 

And  though  I  be  far  away, 
When  the  early  violets  come 

Smiling  at  the  door  with  April, 
Say,  "  The  vagabonds  are  home  ! " 


105 


CAL 


WAYFARING 

ACROSS  the  harbor's  tangled  yards 
We  watch  the  flaring  sunset  fail ; 

Then  the  forever  questing  stars 
File  down  along  the  vanished  trail, 

To  no  discovered  country,  where 
They  will  forgather  when  the  hands 

Of  the  strong  Fates  shall  take  away 
Their  burdens  and  unloose  their  bands. 


106 


Wayfaring 

Westward  and  lone  the  hill-road  gray 
Mounts  to  the  skyline  sheer  and  wan, 

Where  many  a  weary  dream  puts  forth 
To  strike  the  trail  where  they  are  gone. 

The  sleepless  guide  to  that  outland 
Is  the  great  Mother  of  us  all, 

Whose  molded  dust  and  dew  we  are 
With  the  blown  flowers  by  the  wall. 

Girt  with  the  twilight  she  is  grave, 
The  strong  companion,  wise  and  free  ; 

She  leads  beyond  the  dales  of  time, 
The  earldom  of  the  calling  sea — 


107 


Low   Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

Beyond  these  dull  green  miles  of  dike, 
And  gleaming  breakers  on  the  bar — 

To  the  white  kingdom  of  her  lord, 

The  nameless  Word,  whose  breath  we  are. 

And  all  the  world  is  but  a  scheme 

Of  busy  children  in  the  street, 
A  play  they  follow  and  forget 

On  summer  evenings,  pale  with  heat. 

The  dusty  courtyard  flags  and  walls 

Are  like  a  prison  gate  of  stone, 
To  every  spirit  for  whose  breath 

The  long  sweet  hill-winds  once  have  blown. 


108 


Wayfaring 

But  waiting  in  the  fields  for  them 
I  see  the  ancient  Mother  stand, 

With  the  old  courage  of  her  smile, 
The  patience  of  her  sunbrown  hand. 

They  heed  her  not,  until  there  comes 
A  breath  of  sleep  upon  their  eyes, 

A  drift  of  dust  upon  their  face  ; 
Then  in  the  closing  dusk  they  rise, 

And  turn  them  to  the  empty  doors  ; 

But  she  within  whose  hands  alone 
The  days  are  gathered  up  as  fruit, 

Doth  habit  not  in  brick  and  stone. 


109 


Low   Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

But  where  the  wild  shy  things  abide, 
Along  the  woodside  and  the  wheat, 

Is  her  abiding,  deep  withdrawn  ; 
And  there,  the  footing  of  her  feet. 

There  is  no  common  fame  of  her 
Upon  the  corners,  yet  some  word 

Of  her  most  secret  heritage 

Her  lovers  from  her  lips  have  heard. 

Her  daisies  sprang  where  Chaucer  went  ; 

Her  darkling  nightingales  with  spring 
Possessed  the  soul  of  Keats  for  song  ; 

And  Shelley  heard  her  skylark  sing ; 


no 


Wayfaring 

With  reverent  clear  uplifted  heart 
Wordsworth  beheld  her  daffodils  ; 

And  he  became  too  great  for  haste, 

Who  watched  the  warm  green  Cumner  hills. 

She  gave  the  apples  of  her  eyes 
For  the  delight  of  him  who  knew, 

With  all  the  wisdom  of  a  child, 

"A  bank  whereon  the  wild  thyme  grew." 

Still  the  old  secret  shifts,  and  waits 

The  last  interpreter  ;  it  fills 
The  autumn  song  no  ear  hath  heard 

Upon  the  dreaming  Ardise  hills. 


in 


Low   Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

The  poplars  babble  over  it 

When  waking  winds  of  dawn  go  by  ; 
It  fills  her  rivers  like  a  voice, 

And  leads  her  wanderers  till  they  die. 

She  knows  the  morning  ways  whereon 
The  windflowers  and  the  wind  confer  ; 

Surely  there  is  not  any  fear 

Upon  the  farthest  trail  with  her  ! 

And  yet,  what  ails  the  fir-dark  slopes, 
That  all  night  long  the  whippoorwills 

Cry  their  insatiable  cry 

Across  the  sleeping  Ardise  hills  ? 


Wayfaring 

Is  it  that  no  fair  mortal  thing, 

Blown  leaf,  nor  song,  nor  friend  can  stray 
Beyond  the  bourne  and  bring  one  word 

Back  the  irremeable  way  ? 

The  noise  is  hushed  within  the  street ; 

The  summer  twilight  gathers  down  ; 
The  elms  are  still  ;  the  moonlit  spires 

Track  their  long  shadows  through  the  town. 

With  looming  willows  and  gray  dusk 

The  open  hillward  road  is  pale, 
And  the  great  stars  are  white  and  few 

Above  the  lonely  Ardise  trail. 


Low   Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

And  with  no  haste  nor  any  fear, 
We  are  as  children  going  home 

Along  the  marshes  where  the  wind 
Sleeps  in  the  cradle  of  the  foam. 


114 


THE  END  OF  THE  TRAIL 

ONCE  more  the  hunters  of  the  dusk 

Are  forth  to  search  the  moorlands  wide, 

Among  the  autumn-colored  hills, 
And  wander  by  the  shifting  tide. 

All  day  along  the  haze-hung  verge 
They  scour  upon  a  fleeing  trace, 

Between  the  red  sun  and  the  sea, 

Where  haunts  the  vision  of  your  face. 


Low   Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

The  plain  at  Martock  lies  and  drinks 
The  long  Septembral  gaze  of  blue; 

The  royal  leisure  of  the  hills 
Hath  wayward  reveries  of  you. 

Far  rovers  of  the  ancient  dream 
Have  all  their  will  of  musing  hours: 

Your  eyes  were  gray-deep  as  the  sea, 
Your  hands  lay  open  in  the  flowers  ! 

From  mining  Rawdon  to  Pereau, 

For  all  the  gold  they  delve  and  share, 

The  goblins  of  the  Ardise  hills 

Can  hoard  no  treasure  like  your  hair. 


116 


The  End  of  the  Trail 

The  swirling  tide,  the  lonely  gulls, 

The  sweet  low  wood-winds  that  rejoice — 

No  sound  nor  echo  of  the  sea 
But  hath  tradition  of  your  voice. 

The  crimson  leaves,  the  yellow  fruit, 
The  basking  woodlands  mile  on  mile — 

No  gleam  in  all  the  russet  hills 
But  wears  the  solace  of  your  smile. 

A  thousand  cattle  rove  and  feed 
On  the  great  marshes  in  the  sun, 

And  wonder  at  the  restless  sea; 
But  I  am  glad  the  year  is  done, 


117 


Low  Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

Because  I  am  a  wanderer 

Upon  the  roads  of  endless  quest, 
Between  the  hill -wind  and  the  hills, 

Along  the  margin  men  call  rest. 

Because  there  lies  upon  my  lips 
A  whisper  of  the  wind  at  morn, 

A  murmur  of  the  rolling  sea 

Cradling  the  land  where  I  was  born; 

Because  its  sleepless  tides  and  storms 
Are  in  my  heart  for  memory 

And  music,  and  its  gray-green  hills 
Run  white  to  bear  me  company; 


118 


The  End  of  the  Trail 

Because  in  that  sad  time  of  year, 
With  April  twilight  on  the  earth 

And  journeying  rain  upon  the  sea, 

With  the  shy  windflowers  was  my  birth; 

Because  I  was  a  tiny  boy 

Among  the  thrushes  of  the  wood, 

And  all  the  rivers  in  the  hills 
Were  playmates  of  my  solitude; 

Because  the  holy  winter  night 

Was  for  my  chamber,  deep  among 

The  dark  pine  forests  by  the  sea, 
With  woven  red  auroras  hung, 


119 


Low   Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

Silent  with  frost  and  floored  with  snow, 
With  what  dream  folk  to  people  it 

And  bring  their  stories  from  the  hills, 
When  all  the  splendid  stars  were  lit; 

Therefore  I  house  me  not  with  kin, 
But  journey  as  the  sun  goes  forth, 

By  stream  and  wood  and  marsh  and  sea, 
Through  dying  summers  of  the  North; 

Until,  some  hazy  autumn  day, 
With  yellow  evening  in  the  skies 

And  rime  upon  the  tawny  hills, 

The  far  blue  signal  smoke  shall  rise, 


120 


The  End  of  the  Trail 

To  tell  my  scouting  foresters 
Have  heard  the  clarions  of  rest 

Bugling,  along  the  outer  sea, 
The  end  of  failure  and  of  quest. 

Then  all  the  piping  Nixie  folk, 

Where  lonesome  meadow  winds  are  low, 
Through  all  the  valleys  in  the  hills 

Their  river  reeds  shall  blow  and  blow, 

To  lead  me  like  a  joy,  as  when 
The  shining  April  flowers  return, 

Back  to  a  footpath  by  the  sea 
With  scarlet  hip  and  ruined  fern. 


121 


Low   Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

For  I  must  gain,  ere  the  long  night 
Bury  its  travelers  deep  with  snow, 

That  trail  among  the  Ardise  hills 
Where  first  I  found  you  years  ago. 

I  shall  not  fail,  for  I  am  strong, 
And  Time  is  very  old,  they  say, 

And  somewhere  by  the  quiet  sea 
Makes  no  refusal  to  delay. 

There  will  I  get  me  home,  and  there 
Lift  up  your  face  in  my  brown  hand, 

With  all  the  rosy  rusted  hills 

About  the  heart  of  that  dear  land. 


122 


THE  VAGABONDS 

"  Such  as  wake  on  the  night  and  sleep  on  the  day,  and 
haunt  customable  taverns  and  alehouses  and  routs  about, 
and  no  man  wot  from  whence  they  came,  nor  whither  they 
go.  "—Old  English  Statute. 

WE  are  the  vagabonds  of  time. 
And  rove  the  yellow  autumn  days, 

When  all  the  roads  are  gray  with  rime 
And  all  the  valleys  blue  with  haze. 

We  came  unlocked  for  as  the  wind 
Trooping  across  the  April  hills, 

When  the  brown  waking  earth  had  dreams 
Of  summer  in  the  Wander  Kills. 


Low   Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

How  far  afield  we  joyed  to  fare, 
With  June  in  every  blade  and  tree  ! 

Now  with  the  sea- wind  in  our  hair 
We  turn  our  faces  to  the  sea. 

We  go  unheeded  as  the  stream 

That  wanders  by  the  hill-wood  side, 

Till  the  great  marshes  take  his  hand 
And  lead  him  to  the  roving  tide. 

The  roving  tide,  the  sleeping  hills, 
These  are  the  borders  of  that  zone 

Where  they  may  fare  as  fancy  wills 
Whom  wisdom  smiles  and  calls  her  own. 


124 


The   Vagabonds 

It  is  a  country  of  the  sun, 
Full  of  forgotten  yesterdays, 

When  time  takes  Summer  in  his  care, 
And  fills  the  distance  of  her  gaze. 

It  stretches  from  the  open  sea 

To  the  blue  mountains  and  beyond; 

The  world  is  Vagabondia 
To  him  who  is  a  vagabond. 

In  the  beginning  God  made  man 
Out  of  the  wandering  dust,  men  say; 

And  in  the  end  his  life  shall  be 

A  wandering  wind  and  blown  away. 


125 


Low  Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

We  are  the  vagabonds  of  time, 
Willing  to  let  the  world  go  by, 

With  joy  supreme,  with  heart  sublime, 
And  valor  in  the  kindling  eye. 

We  have  forgotten  where  we  slept, 
And  guess  not  where  we  sleep  to-night, 

Whether  among  the  lonely  hills 
In  the  pale  streamers'  ghostly  light 

We  shall  lie  down  and  hear  the  frost 
Walk  in  the  dead  leaves  restlessly, 

Or  somewhere  on  the  iron  coast 
Learn  the  oblivion  of  the  sea. 


126 


The   Vagabonds 

It  matters  not.  And  yet  I  dream 
Of  dreams  fulfilled  and  rest  somewhere 

Before  this  restless  heart  is  stilled 
And  all  its  fancies  blown  to  air. 

Had  I  my  will !  .  .  .  The  sun  burns  down 
And  something  plucks  my  garment's  hem; 

The  robins  in  their  faded  brown 

Would  lure  me  to  the  south  with  them. 

'Tis  time  for  vagabonds  to  make 
The  nearest  inn.  Far  on  I  hear 

The  voices  of  the  Northern  hills 
Gather  the  vagrants  of  the  year. 


127 


Low   Tide  on  Grand  Prt 

Brave  heart,  my  soul  !     Let  longings  be  ! 

We  have  another  day  to  wend. 
For  dark  or  waylay  what  care  we 

Who  have  the  lords  of  time  to  friend  ? 

And  if  we  tarry  or  make  haste, 

The  wayside  sleep  can  hold  no  fear. 

Shall  fate  unpoise,  or  whim  perturb, 
The  calm-begirt  in  dawn  austere  ? 

There  is  a  tavern,  I  have  heard, 
Not  far,  and  frugal,  kept  by  One 

Who  knows  the  children  of  the  Word, 
And  welcomes  each  when  day  is  done. 


128 


The   Vagabonds 

Some  say  the  house  is  lonely  set 

In  Northern  night,  and  snowdrifts  keep 

The  silent  door;  the  hearth  is  cold, 
And  all  my  fellows  gone  to  sleep.  .  .  . 

Had  I  my  will !     I  hear  the  sea 
Thunder  a  welcome  on  the  shore; 

I  know  where  lies  the  hostelry 

And  who  should  open  me  the  door. 


129 


WHITHER 

WHAT  shall  we  do,  dearie, 
Dreaming  such  dreams  ? 

Will  they  come  true,  dearie? 
Never,  it  seems. 

Leave  the  wise  thrush  alone; 

He  knows  such  things. 
How  rich  the  silences 

Fall  when  he  sings  ! 

130 


Whither 

When  shall  we  come,  dearie. 

Into  that  land 
Once  was  our  home,  dearie, 

Perfect  as  planned  ? 

When  the  wind  calling  us, 

Some  summer  day, 
Into  the  long  ago 

Lures  us  away. 

Where  shall  we  go,  dearie, 

Wandering  thus  ? 
Far  to  and  fro,  dearie, 

Life  leads  for  us. 


Low  Tide  on  Grand  Pre 

Thou  with  the  morrow's  sun 

Hillward  and  free, 
I  to  the  vast  and  hoar 

Lone  of  the  sea. 


1886-1893. 


13* 


Ballads  of  Lost  Haven 


Contents 

PAGE 

A  SON  OF  THE  SEA 7 

THE  GRAVEDIGGER .        8 

THE  YULE  GUEST  .        .        .       .        ...       .       .      12 

THE  MARRING  OF  MALYN     .       «      ,•      >•       •       •       •      2^ 

THE  NANCY'S  PRIDE     .        .        .  ,       .       .        '43 

ARNOLD,  MASTER  OF  THE  SCUD  .       .       .       .       »       .      48 

THE  SHIPS  OF  ST.  JOHN       .       .       .       .       .       .       -55 

THE  KING  OF  Ys > «        .        .      59 

THE  KELPIE  RIDERS     .        .       .        .       .  .        .      68 

NOONS  OF  POPPY  .        ...        .        .       .       •        •      93 

LEGENDS  OF  LOST  HAVEN    .        .        .  .       .        -95 

THE  SHADOW  BOATSWAIN 98 

THE  MASTER  OF  THE  ISLES 104 

THE  LAST  WATCH no 

OUTBOUND  .       .116 


A  SON   OF  THE   SEA 

I  WAS  born  for  deep-sea  faring; 
I  was  bred  to  put  to  sea; 
Stories  of  ray  father's  daring 
Filled  me  at  my  mother's  knee. 

I  was  sired  among  the  surges; 
I  was  cubbed  beside  the  foam; 
All  my  heart  is  in  its  verges, 
And  the  sea  wind  is  my  home. 

All  my  boyhood,  from  far  vernal 
Bourns  of  being,  came  to  me 
Dream-like,  plangent,  and  eternal 
Memories  of  the  plunging  sea. 
7 


THE   GRAVEDIGGER 

OH,  the  shambling  sea  is  a  sexton  old, 
And  well  his  work  is  done. 
With  an  equal  grave  for  lord  and  knave, 
He  buries  them  every  one. 

Then  hoy  and  rip,  with  a  rolling  hip, 
He  makes  for  the  nearest  shore; 
And  God,  who  sent  him  a  thousand  ship, 
Will  send  him  a  thousand  more; 
But  some  he'll  save  for  a  bleaching  grave, 
And  shoulder  them  in  to  shore, — 
Shoulder  them  in,  shoulder  them  in, 
Shoulder  them  in  to  shore. 
8 


The  Gravedigger 

Oh,  the  ships  of  Greece  and  the  ships  of  Tyre 
Went  out,  and  where  are  they? 
In  the  port  they  made,  they  are  delayed 
With  the  ships  of  yesterday. 

He  followed  the  ships  of  England  far, 

As  the  ships  of  long  ago; 

And  the  ships  of  France  they  led  him  a  dance, 

But  he  laid  them  all  arow. 

Oh,  a  loafing,  idle  lubber  to  him 
Is  the  sexton  of  the  town; 
For  sure  and  swift,  with  a  guiding  lift, 
He  shovels  the  dead  men  down. 

But  though  he  delves  so  fierce  and  grim, 
His  honest  graves  are  wide, 
As  well  they  know  who  sleep  below 
The  dredge  of  the  deepest  tide. 
9 


The  Gravedigger 

Oh,  he  works  with  a  rollicking  stave  at  lip, 
And  loud  is  the  chorus  skirled; 
With  the  burly  rote  of  his  rumbling  throat 
He  batters  it  down  the  world. 

He  learned  it  once  in  his  father's  house, 
Where  the  ballads  of  eld  were  sung; 
And  merry  enough  is  the  burden  rough, 

But  no  man  knows  the  tongue. 

i 

Oh,  fair,  they  say,  was  his  bride  to  see, 
And  wilful  she  must  have  been, 
That  she  could  bide  at  his  gruesome  side 
When  the  first  red  dawn  came  in. 

And  sweet,  they  say,  is  her  kiss  to  those 
She  greets  to  his  border  home; 
And  softer  than  sleep  her  hand's  first  sweep 
That  beckons,  and  they  come. 
10 


The  Gravedigger 

Oh,  crooked  is  he,  but  strong  enough 
To  handle  the  tallest  mast; 
From  the  royal  barque  to  the  slaver  dark, 
He  buries  them  all  at  last. 

Then  hoy  and  rip,  with  a  rolling  hip, 

He  makes  for  the  nearest  shore; 

And  God,  who  sent  him  a  thousand  ship, 

Will  send  him  a  thousand  more; 

But  some  he'll  save  for  a  bleaching  grave, 

And  shoulder  them  in  to  shore, — 

Shoulder  them  in,  shoulder  them  in, 

Shoulder  them  in  to  shore. 


ii 


THE   YULE   GUEST 

AND  Yanna  by  the  yule  log 
Sat  in  the  empty  hall, 
And  watched  the  goblin  firelight 
Caper  upon  the  wall: 

The  goblins  of  the  hearthstone, 
Who  teach  the  wind  to  sing, 
Who  dance  the  frozen  yule  away 
And  usher  back  the  spring; 

The  goblins  of  the  Northland, 
Who  teach  the  gulls  to  scream, 
Who  dance  the  autumn  into  dust, 
The  ages  into  dream. 
12 


The   Yule  Guest 

Like  the  tall  corn  was  Yanna, 
Bending  and  smooth  and  fair, — 
His  Yanna  of  the  sea-gray  eyes 
And  harvest-yellow  hair. 

Child  of  the  low-voiced  people 
Who  dwell  among  the  hills, 
She  had  the  lonely  calm  and  poise 
Of  life  that  waits  and  wills. 

Only  to-night  a  little 
With  grave  regard  she  smiled, 
Remembering  the  morn  she  woke 
And  ceased  to  be  a  child. 

Outside,  the  ghostly  rampikes, 
Those  armies  of  the  moon, 
Stood  while  the  ranks  of  stars  drew  on 
To  that  more  spacious  noon, — 
13 


The   Yule  Guest 

While  over  them  in  silence 
Waved  on  the  dusk  afar 
The  gold  flags  of  the  Northern  light 
Streaming  with  ancient  war. 

And  when  below  the  headland 
The  riders  of  the  foam 
Up  from  the  misty  border  rode 
The  wild  gray  horses  home, 

And  woke  the  wintry  mountains 
With  thunder  on  the  shore, 
Out  of  the  night  there  came  a  weird 
And  cried  at  Yanna's  door. 

"O  Yanna,  Adrianna, 
They  buried  me  away 
In  the  blue  fathoms  of  the  deep, 
Beyond  the  outer  bay. 
14 


The   Yule  Guest 

"But  in  the  yule,  O  Yanna, 
Up  from  the  round  dim  sea 
And  reeling  dungeons  of  the  fog, 
I  am  come  back  to  thee ! " 

The  wind  slept  in  the  forest, 
The  moon  was  white  and  high, 
Only  the  shifting  snow  awoke 
To  hear  the  yule  guest  cry. 

"O  Yanna,  Yanna,  Yanna, 
Be  quick  and  let  me  in! 
For  bitter  is  the  trackless  way 
And  far  that  I  have  been ! " 

Then  Yanna  by  the  yule  log 
Starts  from  her  dream  to  hear 
A  voice  that  bids  her  brooding  heart 
Shudder  with  joy  and  fear. 


The   Yule  Guest 

The  wind  is  up  a  moment 
And  whistles  at  the  eaves, 
And  in  his  troubled  iron  dream 
The  ocean  moans  and  heaves. 

She  trembles  at  the  door-lock 
That  he  is  come  again, 
And  frees  the  wooden  bolt  for  one 
No  barrier  could  detain. 

"O  Garvin,  bonny  Garvin, 

So  late,  so  late  you  come!" 

The  yule  log  crumbles  down  and  throws 

Strange  figures  on  the  gloom; 

But  in  the  moonlight  pouring 
Through  the  half-open  door 
Stands  the  gray  guest  of  yule  and  casts 
No  shadow  on  the  floor. 
16 


The   Yule  Guest 

The  change  that  is  upon  him 
She  knows  not  in  her  haste; 
About  him  her  strong  arms  with  glad 
Impetuous  tears  are  laced. 

She's  led  him  to  the  fireside, 

And  set  the  wide  oak  chair, 

And  with  her  warm  hands  brushed  away 

The  sea-rime  from  his  hair. 

"O  Garvin,  I  have  waited, — 
Have  watched  the  red  sun  sink, 
And  clouds  of  sail  come  flocking  in 
Over  the  world's  gray  brink, 

"With  stories  of  encounter 
On  plank  and  mast  and  spar; 
But  never  the  brave  barque  I  launched 
And  waved  across  the  bar. 
c  17 


The   Yule  Guest 

"How  come  you  so  unsignalled, 
When  I  have  watched  so  well? 
Where  rides  the  Adrianna 
With  my  name  on  boat  and  bell?" 

"O  Yanna,  golden  Yanna, 

The  Adrianna  lies 

With  the  sea  dredging  through  her  ports, 

The  white  sand  through  her  eyes. 

"And  strange  unearthly  creatures 
Make  marvel  of  her  hull, 
Where  far  below  the  gulfs  of  storm 
There  is  eternal  lull. 

"O  Yanna,  Adrianna, 
This  midnight  I  am  here, 
Because  one  night  of  all  my  life 
At  yule  tide  of  the  year, 
18 


The   Yule  Guest 

"With  the  stars  white  in  heaven, 
And  peace  upon  the  sea, 
With  all  my  world  in  your  white  arms 
You  gave  yourself  to  me. 

"For  that  one  night,  my  Yanna, 
Within  the  dying  year, 
Was  it  not  well  to  love,  and  now 
Can  it  be  well  to  fear?" 

"O  Garvin,  there  is  heartache 
In  tales  that  are  half  told; 
But  ah,  thy  cheek  is  pale  to-night, 
And  thy  poor  hands  are  cold! 

"Tell  me  the  course,  the  voyage, 
The  ports,  and  the  new  stars; 
Did  the  long  rollers  make  green  surf 
On  the  white  reefs  and  bars?" 
19 


The   Yule  Guest 

"O  Yanna,  Adrianna, 
Though  easily  I  found 
The  set  of  those  uncharted  tides 
In  seas  no  line  could  sound, 

"And  made  without  a  pilot 
The  port  without  a  light, 
No  log  keeps  tally  of  the  knots 
That  I  have  sailed  to-night. 

"It  fell  about  mid- April; 
The  Trades  were  holding  free; 
We  drove  her  till  the  scuppers  hissed 
And  buried  in  the  lee. 
####•###. 
"O  Yanna,  Adrianna, 
Loose  hands  and  let  me  go! 
The  night  grows  red  along  the  East, 
And  in  the  shifting  snow 
20 


The   Yule  Guest 

"I  hear  my  shipmates  calling, 
Sent  out  to  search  for  me 
In  the  pale  lands  beneath  the  moon 
Along  the  troubling  sea." 

"O  Garvin,  bonny  Garvin, 
What  is  the  booming  sound 
Of  canvas,  and  the  piping  shrill, 
As  when  a  ship  comes  round?" 

"It  is  the  shadow  boatswain 
Piping  his  hands  to  bend 
The  looming  sails  on  giant  yards 
Aboard  the  Nomansfriend. 

"She  sails  for  Sunken  Harbor 
And  ports  of  yester  year; 
The  tern  are  shrilling  in  the  lift, 
The  low  wind-gates  are  clear. 
21 


The   Yule  Guest 

"O  Yanna,  Adrianna, 

The  little  while  is  done. 

Thou  wilt  behold  the  brightening  sea 

Freshen  before  the  sun, 

"And  many  a  morning  redden 
The  dark  hill  slopes  of  pine; 
But  I  must  sail  hull-down  to-night 
B*low  the  gray  sea-line. 

"  I  shall  not  hear  the  snowbirds 
Their  morning  litany, 
For  when  the  dawn  comes  over  dale 
I  must  put  out  to  sea." 

"O  Garvin,  bonny  Garvin, 
To  have  thee  as  I  will, 
I  would  that  never  more  on  earth 
The  dawn  came  over  hill." 
22 


The  Yule  Guest 

******* 
Then  on  the  snowy  pillow, 
Her  hair  about  her  face, 
He  laid  her  in  the  quiet  room, 
And  wiped  away  all  trace 

Of  tears  from  the  poor  eyelids 
That  were  so  sad  for  him, 
And  soothed  her  into  sleep  at  last 
As  the  great  stars  grew  dim. 

Tender  as  April  twilight 

He  sang,  and  the  song  grew 

Vague  as  the  dreams  which  roam  about 

This  world  of  dust  and  dew: 

"O  Yanna,  Adrianna, 
Dear  Love,  look  forth  to  sea 
And  all  year  long  until  the  yule, 
Dear  Heart,  keep  watch  for  me! 
23 


The   Yule  Guest 

"O  Yanna,  Adrianna, 

I  hear  the  calling  sea, 

And  the  folk  telling  tales  among 

The  hills  where  I  would  be. 

"O  Yanna,  Adrianna, 

Over  the  hills  of  sea 

The  wind  calls  and  the  morning  comes, 

And  I  must  forth  from  thee. 

"But  Yanna,  Adrianna, 
Keep  watch  above  the  sea; 
And  when  the  weary  time  is  o'er, 
Dear  Life,  come  back  to  me ! " 

"O  Garvin,  bonny  Garvin  —  " 
She  murmurs  in  her  dream, 
And  smiles  a  moment  in  her  sleep 
To  hear  the  white  gulls  scream. 
24 


The  Yule  Guest 

Then  with  the  storm  foreboding 
Far  in  the  dim  gray  South, 
He  kissed  her  not  upon  the  cheek 
Nor  on  the  burning  mouth, 

But  once  above  the  forehead 
Before  he  turned  away; 
And  ere  the  morning  light  stole  in, 
That  golden  lock  was  gray. 

"O  Yanna,  Adrianna — " 
The  wind  moans  to  the  sea; 
And  down  the  sluices  of  the  dawn 
A  shadow  drifts  alee. 


25 


THE   MARRING  OF   MALYN 

I 

THE  MERRYMAKERS 

AMONG  the  wintry  mountains  beside  the  Northern  sea 
There  is  a  merrymaking,  as  old  as  old  can  be. 

Over  the  river  reaches,  over  the  wastes  of  snow, 
Halting  at  every  doorway,  the  white  drifts  come  and  go. 

They  scour  upon  the  open,  and  mass  along  the  wood, 
The  burliest  invaders  that  ever  man  withstood. 

With  swoop  and  whirl  and  scurry,  these  riders  of  the 
drift 

26 


The  Merrymakers 

Will  mount  and  wheel  and  column,  and  pass  into  the 
lift. 

All  night  upon  the  marshes  you  hear  their  tread  go  by, 
And  all  night  long  the  streamers  are  dancing  on  the 
sky. 

Their  light  in  Malyn' s  chamber  is  pale  upon  the  floor, 
And  Malyn  of  the  mountains  is  theirs  for  evermore. 

She  fancies  them  a  people  in  saffron  and  in  green, 
Dancing  for  her.     For  Malyn  is  only  seventeen. 

Out  there  beyond  her  window,  from  frosty  deep  to  deep, 
Her  heart  is  dancing  with  them  until  she  falls  asleep. 

Then  all   night  long  through  heaven,  with  stately  to 

and  fro, 

To  music  of  no  measure,  the  gorgeous  dancers  go. 

27 


The  Merrymakers 

The  stars  are  great  and  splendid,  beryl  and  gold  and 

blue, 
And  there  are  dreams  for  Malyn  that  never  will  come 

true. 

Yet  for  one  golden  Yule-tide  their  royal  guest  is  she, 
Among  the  wintry  mountains  beside  the  Northern  sea. 


28 


II 

A  SAILOR'S  WEDDING 

THERE  is  a  Norland  laddie  who  sails  the  round  sea- 
rim, 

And  Malyn  of  the  mountains  is  all  the  world  to  him. 

The  Master  of  the  Snowflake,  bound  upward  from  the 
line, 

He   smothers   her   with    canvas    along   the   crumbling 
brine. 

He  crowds  her  till  she  buries  and  shudders  from  his 
hand, 

For  in  the  angry  sunset  the  watch  has  sighted  land; 

And  he  will  brook  no  gainsay  who  goes  to  meet  his 
bride. 

29 


A  Sailor's   Wedding 

But   their  will  is  the  wind's  will  who  traffic  on  the 

tide. 
Make  home,  my  bonny  schooner !     The  sun  goes  down 

to  light 
The   gusty   crimson   wind-halls   against   the    wedding 

night. 

She  gathers  up  the  distance,  and  grows  and  veers  and 

swings, 
Like    any    homing    swallow    with    nightfall    in    her 

wings. 
The  wind's  white  sources  glimmer  with  shining  gusts 

of  rain; 
And   in   the   Ardise   country  the    spring   comes   back 

again. 

It  is  the  brooding  April,  haunted  and  sad  and  dear, 
When  vanished   things  return  not  with   the   returning 

year. 

30 


A  Sattor's  Wedding 

Only,  when  evening  purples  the  light  in  Malyn's  dale, 
With  sound  of  brooks  and  robins,  by  many  a  hidden 

trail, 

With  stir  of  lulling  rivers  along  the  forest  floor, 
The  dream-folk  of  the  gloaming  come  back  to  Malyn's 

door. 

The  dusk  is  long  and  gracious,  and  far  up  in  the  sky 
You  hear  the  chimney-swallows  twitter  and  scurry  by. 
The  hyacinths  are  lonesome  and  white  in  Malyn's 

room; 
And  out  at  sea  the  Snowflake  is  driving  through  the 

gloom. 
The    whitecaps   froth   and    freshen;   in  squadrons   of 

white  surge 

They  thunder  on  to  ruin,  and  smoke  along  the  verge. 
The  lift  is  black  above  them,  the  sea  is  mirk  below, 
And  down  the  world's  wide  border  they  perish  as 

they  go. 

31 


A  Sailor's   Wedding 

They  comb  and  seethe  and  founder,  they  mount  and 

glimmer  and  flee, 

Amid  the  awful  sobbing  and  quailing  of  the  sea. 
They  sheet  the  flying  schooner  in  foam  from  stem  to 

stern, 
Till  every  yard  of  canvas  is  drenched  from  clew  to 

ear'n'. 
And  where  they  move  uneasy,  chill  is  the  light  and 

pale; 
They  are  the  Skipper's  daughters,  who  dance  before 

the  gale. 
They  revel  with  the   Snowflake,  and  down  the  close 

of  day 
Among  the  boisterous  dancers  she  holds  her  dancing 

way; 

And  then  the  dark  has  kindled  the  harbor  light  alee, 
With   stars  and  wind   and   sea-room   upon   the   gurly 

sea. 

32 


A  Sailor's    Wedding 

The  storm  gets  up  to  windward  to  heave  and   clang 

and  brawl; 

The  dancers  of  the  open  begin  to  moan  and  call. 
A  lure  is  in  their  dancing,  a  weird  is  in  their  song; 
The  snow-white  Skipper's  daughters  are  stronger  than 

the  strong. 
They   love   the   Norland   sailor  who   dares   the  rough 

sea  play; 

Their  arms  are  white  and  splendid  to  beckon  him  away. 
They  promise  him,  for  kisses  a  moment  at  their  lips, 
To  make  before  the  morning  the  port  of  missing  ships, 
Where  men  put  in  for  shelter,  and  dreams  put  forth 

again, 

And  the  great  sea- winds  follow  the  journey  of  the  rain. 
A  bridal  with  no  morrow,  no  welling  of  old  tears, 
For  him,  and  no  more  tidings  of  the  departed  years! 
For  there  of  old  were  fashioned   the   chambers   cool 

and  dim, 

D  33 


A  Sailor's   Wedding 

In  the  eternal  silence  below  the  twilight's  rim. 

The  borders  of  that  country  are  slumberous  and  wide; 

And  they  are  well  who  marry  the  fondlers  of  the  tide. 

Within  their  arms  immortal,  no  mortal  fear  can  be; 

But  Malyn  of  the  mountains  is  fairer  than  the  sea. 

And  so  the  scudding  Snowflake  flies  with  the  wind 
astern, 

And  through  the  boding  twilight  are  blown  the  shrill- 
ing tern. 

The  light  is  on  the  headland,  the  harbor  gate  is  wide; 

But  rolling  in  with  ruin  the  fog  is  on  the  tide. 

Fate  like  a  muffled  steersman  sails  with  that  Norland 
gloom; 

The  Snowflake  in  the  offing  is  neck  and  neck  with 
doom. 

Ha,  ha,  my  saucy  cruiser,  crowd  up  your  helm  and  run ! 

There'll  be  a  merrymaking  to-morrow  in  the  sun. 

A  cloud  of  straining  canvas,  a  roar  of  breaking  foam, 

34 


A  Sailor's   Wedding 

The   Snowflake   and   the    sea-drift   are   racing   in   for 

home. 

Her  heart  is  dancing  shoreward,  but  silently  and  pale 
The  swift  relentless  phantom  is  hungering  on  her  trail. 
They  scour  and  fly  together,  until  across  the  roar 
He  signals  for  a  pilot  —  and  Death  puts  out  from  shore. 
A  moment  Malyn's  window  is  gleaming  in  the  lee, 
And  then  —  the  ghost  of  wreckage  upon  the  iron  sea. 

Ah,  Malyn,  lay  your  forehead  upon  your  folded  arm, 
And  hear  the  grim   marauder  shake  out  the  reefs  of 

storm ! 

Loud  laughs  the  surly  Skipper  to  feel  the  fog  drive  in, 
Because  a  blue-eyed  sailor  shall  wed  his  kith  and  kin, 
And  the  red  dawn  discover  a  rover  spent  for  breath 
Among  the  merrymakers  who  fondle  him  to  death. 
And  all  the  snowy  sisters  are  dancing  wild  and  grand, 
For  him  whose  broken  beauty  shall  slacken  to  their  hand. 

35 


A  Sailor's   Wedding 

They  wanton  in  their  triumph,  and   skirl   at  Malyn's 

plight; 
Lift  up   their  hands   in   chorus,    and   thunder  to   the 

night. 

The  gulls  are  driven  inland;  but  on  the  dancing  tide 
The  master  of  the  Snowflake  is  taken  to  his  bride. 

And  there  when  daybreak  yellows  along  the  far  sea- 
plain, 

The  fresh  and  buoyant  morning  comes  down  the  wind 
again. 

The  world  is  glad  of  April,  the  gulls  are  wild  with  glee, 

And  Malyn  on  the  headland  alone  looks  out  to  sea. 

Once  more  that  gray  Shipmaster  smiles,  for  the  night 
is  done, 

And  all  his  snow-white  daughters  are  dancing  in  the  sun. 


Ill 

THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  MARSH 

THE  year  grows  on  to  harvest,  the  tawny  lilies  burn 
Along   the   marsh,  and  hillward   the  roads  are   sweet 

with  fern. 

All  day  the  windless  heaven  pavilions  the  sea-blue, 
Then  twilight  comes  and  drenches  the  sultry  dells  with 

dew. 
The  lone  white  star  of  evening  comes  out  among  the 

hills, 

And  in  the  darkling  forest  begin  the  whip-poor-wills. 
The  fireflies  that  wander,  the  hawks  that  flit  and  scream, 
And  all  the  wilding  vagrants  of  summer  dusk  and 

dream, 

37 


The  Light  on  the  Marsh 

Have  all  their  will,  and  reck  not  of  any  after  thing, 
Inheriting  no  sorrow  and  no  foreshadowing. 
The  wind  forgets  to  whisper,  the  pines  forget  to  moan, 
And  Malyn  of  the  mountains  is  there  among  her  own. 
Malyn,  whom  grief  nor  wonder  can  trouble  nevermore, 
Since  that  spring  night  the  Snowflake  was  wrecked 

beside  her  door, 
And  strange  her  cry  went  seaward  once,  and  her  soul 

thereon 

With  the  vast  lonely  sea-winds,  a  wanderer,  was  gone. 
But  she,  that  patient  beauty  which  is  her  body  fair, 
Endures  on  earth  still  lovely,  untenanted  of  care. 
The  folk  down  at  the  harbor  pity  from  day  to  day; 
With  a  "  God  save  you,  Malyn ! "  they  bid  her  on  her 

way. 
She   smiles,  poor  feckless  Malyn,  the   knowing   smile 

of  those 
Whom  the  too  sudden  vision  God  sometimes  may  disclose 

38 


The  Light  on  the  Marsh 

Of  his  wild,  lurid  world-wreck,  has  blinded  with  its 

sheen. 

Then,  with  a  fond  insistence,  pathetic  and  serene, 
They  pass  among  their  fellows  for  lost  minds  none  can 

save, 

Bent  on  their  single  business,  and  marvel  why  men  rave. 
Now  far  away  a  sighing  comes  from  the  buried  reef, 
As  though  the  sea  were  mourning  above  an  ancient 

grief. 

For  once  the  restless  Mother  of  all  the  weary  lands 
Went  down  to  him  in  beauty,  with  trouble  in  her  hands, 
And  gave  to  him  forever  all  memory  to  keep, 
But  to  her  wayward  children  oblivion  and  sleep, 
That  no  immortal  burden  might  plague  one  living  thing, 
But  death  should  sweetly  visit  us  vagabonds  of  spring. 
And  so  his  heart  forever  goes  inland  with  the  tide, 
Searching  with  many  voices  among  the  marshes  wide. 
Under  the  quiet  starlight,  up  through  the  stirring  reeds, 

39 


The  Light  on  the  Marsh 

With  whispering  and  lamenting  it  rises  and  recedes. 

All  night  the  lapsing  rivers  croon  to  their  shingly  bars 

The  wizardries  that  mingle  the  sea-wind  and  the  stars. 

And  all  night  long  wherever  the  moving  waters  gleam, 

The  little  hills  hearken,  hearken,  the  great  hills  hear 
and  dream. 

And  Malyn  keeps  the  marshes  all  the  sweet  summer 
night, 

Alone,  foot-free,  to  follow  a  wandering  wisp-light. 

For  every  day  at  sundown,  at  the  first  beacon's  gleam, 

She  calls  the  gulls  her  brothers  and  keeps  a  tryst  with 
them. 

"O  gulls,  white  gulls,  what  see  you  beyond  the  slop- 
ing blue? 

And  where  away's  the  Snowflake,  she's  so  long  over- 
due?" 

Then,  as  the  gloaming  settles,  the  hilltop  stars  emerge 

And  watch  that  plaintive  figure  patrol  the  dark  sea  verge. 

40 


The  Light  on  the  Marsh 

She  follows  the  marsh  fire;  her  heart  laughs  and  is  glad; 

She  knows  that  light  to  seaward  is  her  own  sailor  lad ! 

What  are  these  tales  they  tell  her  of  wreckage  on  the 
shore  ? 

Delay  but  makes  his  coming  the  nearer  than  before! 

Surely  her  eyes  have  sighted  his  schooner  in  the  lift ! 

But  the  great  tide  he  homes  on  sets  with  an  outward 
drift. 

So  will-o'-the-wisp  deludes  her  till  dawn,  and  she 
turns  home 

In  unperturbed  assurance,  "To-morrow  he  will  come." 

This  is  the  tale  of  Malyn,  whom  sudden  grief  so 
marred. 

And  still  each  lovely  summer  resumes  that  sweet  re- 
gard,— 

The  old  unvexed  eternal  indifference  to  pain; 

The  sea  sings  in  the  marshes,  and  June  comes  back 
again. 


The  Light  on  the  Marsh 

All  night  the  lapsing  rivers  lisp  in  the  long  dike  grass, 
And   many  memories  whisper   the   sea-winds  as   they 

pass; 
The   tides   disturb   the   silence;   but  not  a  hindrance 

bars 
The  wash  of   time,  where   founder   even  the   galleon 

stars. 

And  all  night  long  wherever  the  moving  waters  gleam, 
The  little  hills  hearken,  hearken,  the  great  hills  hear 

and  dream. 


42 


THE   NANCY'S  PRIDE 

ON  the  long  slow  heave  of  a  lazy  sea, 
To  the  flap  of  an  idle  sail, 
The  Nancy's  Pride  went  out  on  the  tide; 
And  the  skipper  stood  by  the  rail. 

All  down,  all  down  by  the  sleepy  town, 
With  the  hollyhocks  a-row 
In  the  little  poppy  gardens, 
The  sea  had  her  in  tow. 

They  let  her  slip  by  the  breathing  rip, 
Where  the  bell  is  never  still, 
And  over  the  sounding  harbor  bar, 
And  under  the  harbor  hill. 
43 


The  Nancy's  Pride 

She  melted  into  the  dreaming  noon, 
Out  of  the  drowsy  land, 
In  sight  of  a  flag  of  goldy  hair, 
To  the  kiss  of  a  girlish  hand. 

For  the  lass  who  hailed  the  lad  who  sailed, 
Was  —  who  but  his  April  bride? 
And  of  all  the  fleet  of  Grand  Latite, 
Her  pride  was  the  Nancy's  Pride. 

So  the  little  vessel  faded  down 

With  her  creaking  boom  a-swing, 

Till  a  wind  from  the  deep  came  up  with  a  creep, 

And  caught  her  wing  and  wing. 

She  made  for  the  lost  horizon  line, 
Where  the  clouds  a-castled  lay, 
While  the  boil  and  seethe  of  the  open  sea 
Hung  on  her  frothing  way. 
44 


The  Nancy's  Pride 

She  lifted  her  hull  like  a  breasting  gull 
Where  the  rolling  valleys  be, 
And  dipped  where  the  shining  porpoises 
Put  ploughshares  through  the  sea. 

A  fading  sail  on  the  far  sea-line, 

About  the  turn  of  the  tide, 

As  she  made  for  the  Banks  on  her  maiden  cruise, 

Was  the  last  of  the  Nancy's  Pride. 

To-day  a  boy  with  goldy  hair, 

In  a  garden  of  Grand  Latite, 

From  his  mother's  knee  looks  out  to  sea 

For  the  coming  of  the  fleet. 

They  all  may  home  on  a  sleepy  tide, 
To  the  flap  of  the  idle  sail; 
But  it's  never  again  the  Nancy's  Pride 
That  answers  a  human  hail. 
45 


The  Nancy's  Pride 

They  all  may  home  on  a  sleepy  tide 
To  the  sag  of  an  idle  sheet; 
But  it's  never  again  the  Nancy's  Pride 
That  draws  men  down  the  street. 

On  the  Banks  to-night  a  fearsome  sight 
The  fishermen  behold, 
Keeping  the  ghost  watch  in  the  moon 
When  the  small  hours  are  cold. 

When  the  light  wind  veers,  and  the  white  fog  clears, 

They  see  by  the  after  rail 

An  unknown  schooner  creeping  up 

With  mildewed  spar  and  sail. 

Her  crew  lean  forth  by  the  rotting  shrouds, 
With  the  Judgment  in  their  face; 
And  to  their  mates'  "  God  save  you ! " 
Have  never  a  word  of  grace. 

46 


The  Nancy's  Pride 

Then  into  the  gray  they  sheer  away, 

On  the  awful  polar  tide; 

And  the  sailors  know  they  have  seen  the  wraith 

Of  the  missing  Nancy's  Pride. 


47 


ARNOLD,    MASTER   OF  THE   SCUD 

THERE'S  a  schooner  out  from  Kingsport, 
Through  the  morning's  dazzle-gleam, 
Snoring  down  the  Bay  of  Fundy 
With  a  norther  on  her  beam. 

How  the  tough  wind  springs  to  wrestle, 
When  the  tide  is  on  the  flood! 
And  between  them  stands  young  daring  — 
Arnold,  master  of  the  Scud. 

He  is  only  "Martin's  youngster," 
To  the  Minas  coasting  fleet, 
"Twelve  year  old,  and  full  of  Satan 
As  a  nut  is  full  of  meat." 
48 


Arnold,  Master  of  the  Scud 

With  a  wake  of  froth  behind  him, 
And  the  gold  green  waste  before, 
Just  as  though  the  sea  this  morning 
Were  his  boat  pond  by  the  door, 

Legs  a-straddle,  grips  the  tiller 
This  young  waif  of  the  old  sea; 
When  the  wind  comes  harder,  only 
Laughs  "  Hurrah ! "  and  holds  her  free. 

Little  wonder,  as  you  watch  him 
With  the  dash  in  his  blue  eye, 
Long  ago  his  father  called  him 
"Arnold,  Master,"  on  the  sly, 

While  his  mother's  heart  foreboded 
Reckless  father  makes  rash  son. 
So  to-day  the  schooner  carries 
Just  these  two  whose  will  is  one. 
E  49 


Arnold,  Master  of  the  Scud 

Now  the  wind  grows  moody,  shifting 
Point  by  point  into  the  east. 
Wing  and  wing  the  Scud  is  flying 
With  her  scuppers  full  of  yeast. 

And  the  father's  older  wisdom 
On  the  sea-line  has  descried, 
Like  a  stealthy  cloud-bank  making 
Up  to  windward  with  the  tide, 

Those  tall  navies  of  disaster, 
The  pale  squadrons  of  the  fog, 
That  maraud  this  gray  world  border 
Without  pilot,  chart,  or  log, 

Ranging  wanton  as  marooners 
From  Minudie  to  Manan. 
"Heave  to,  and  we'll  reef,  my  master!" 
Cries  he;  when  no  will  of  man 
50 


Arnold y  Master  of  the  Scud 

Spills  the  foresail,  but  a  clumsy 
Wind-flaw  with  a  hand  like  stone 
Hurls  the  boom  round.     In  an  instant 
Arnold,  Master,  there  alone 

Sees  a  crushed  corpse  shot  to  seaward, 
With  the  gray  doom  in  its  face; 
And  the  climbing  foam  receives  it 
To  its  everlasting  place. 

What  does  Arnold,  Master,   think  you? 
Whimper  like  a  child  for  dread? 
That's  not  Arnold.     Foulest  weather 
Strongest  sailors  ever  bred. 

And  this  slip  of  taut  sea-faring 
Grows  a  man  who  throttles  fear. 
Let  the  storm  and  dark  in  spite  now 
Do  their  worst  with  valor  here! 


Arnold,  Master  of  the  Scud 

Not  a  reef  and  not  a  shiver, 
While  the  wind  jeers  in  her  shrouds, 
And  the  flauts  of  foam  and  sea-fog 
Swarm  upon  her  deck  in  crowds, 

Flies  the  Scud  like  a  mad  racer; 
And  with  iron  in  his  frown, 
Holding  hard  by  wrath  and  dreadnought, 
Arnold,  Master,  rides  her  down. 

Let  the  taffrail  shriek  through  foam-heads! 
Let  the  licking  seas  go  glut 
Elsewhere  their  old  hunger,  baffled! 
Arnold's  making  for  the  Gut. 

Cleft  sheer  down,  the  sea-wall  mountains 
Give  that  one  port  on  the  coast; 
Made,  the  Basin  lies  in  sunshine! 
Missed,  the  little  Scud  is  lost! 
52 


Arnold,  Master  of  the  Scud 

Come  now,  fog-horn,  let  your  warning 
Rip  the  wind  to  starboard  there! 
Suddenly  that  burly-throated 
Welcome  ploughs  the  cumbered  air. 

The  young  master  hauls  a  little, 
Crowds  her  up  and  sheets  her  home, 
Heading  for  the  narrow  entry 
Whence  the  safety  signals  come. 

Then  the  wind  lulls,  and  an  eddy 
Tells  of  ledges,  where  away; 
Veers  the  Scud,  sheet  free,  sun  breaking, 
Through  the  rifts,  and  —  there's  the  bay! 

Like  a  bird  in  from  the  storm-beat, 
As  the  summer  sun  goes  down, 
Slows  the  schooner  to  her  moorings 
By  the  wharf  at  Digby  town. 
S3 


Arnold,  Master  of  the  Scud 

All  the  world  next  morning  wondered. 
Largest  letters,  there  it  stood, 
"Storm  in  Fundy.     A  Boy's  Daring. 
Arnold,  Master  of  the   Scud." 


THE   SHIPS   OF   ST.   JOHN 

SMILE,  you  inland  hills  and  rivers! 
Flush,  you  mountains  in  the  dawn! 
But  my  roving  heart  is  seaward 
With  the  ships  of  gray  St.  John. 

Fair  the  land  lies,  full  of  August, 
Meadow  island,  shingly  bar, 
Open  barns  and  breezy  twilight, 
Peace  and  the  mild  evening  star. 

Gently  now  this  gentlest  country 
The  old  habitude  takes  on, 
But  my  wintry  heart  is  outbound 
With  the  great  ships  of  St.  John. 
55 


The  Ships  of  St.  John 

Once  in  your  wide  arms  you  held  me, 
Till  the  man-child  was  a  man, 
Canada,  great  nurse  and  mother 
Of  the  young  sea-roving  clan. 

Always  your  bright  face  above  me 
Through  the  dreams  of  boyhood  shone; 
Now  far  alien  countries  call  me 
With  the  ships  of  gray  St.  John. 

Swing,  you  tides,  up  out  of  Fundy! 
Blow,  you  white  fogs,  in  from  sea! 
I  was  born  to  be  your  fellow; 
You  were  bred  to  pilot  me. 

At  the  touch  of  your  strong  fingers, 
Doubt,  the  derelict,  is  gone; 
Sane  and  glad  I  clear  the  headland 
With  the  white  ships  of  St.  John. 

56 


The  Ships  of  St.  John 

Loyalists,  my  fathers,  builded 
This  gray  port  of  the  gray  sea, 
When  the  duty  to  ideals 
Could  not  let  well-being  be. 

When  the  breadth  of  scarlet  bunting 
Puts  the  wreath  of  maple  on, 
I  must  cheer  too, —  slip  my  moorings 
With  the  ships  of  gray  St.  John. 

Peerless-hearted  port  of  heroes, 
Be  a  word  to  lift  the  world, 
Till  the  many  see  the  signal 
Of  the  few  once  more  unfurled. 

Past  the  lighthouse,  past  the  nunbuoy, 
Past  the  crimson  rising  sun, 
There  are  dreams  go  down  the  harbor 
With  the  tall  ships  of  St.  John. 

57 


The  Ships  of  St.  John 

In  the  morning  I  am  with  them 
As  they  clear  the  island  bar, — 
Fade,  till  speck  by  speck  the  midday 
Has  forgotten  where  they  are. 

But  I  sight  a  vaster  sea-line, 
Wider  lee-way,  longer  run, 
Whose  discoverers  return  not 
With  the  ships  of  gray  St.  John. 


THE   KING   OF  YS 

WILD  across  the  Breton  country, 
Fabled  centuries  ago, 
Riding  from  the  black  sea  border, 
Came  the  squadrons  of  the  snow. 

Piping  dread  at  every  latch-hole, 
Moaning  death  at  every  sill, 
The  white  Yule  came  down  in  vengeance 
Upon  Ys,  and  had  its  will. 

Walled  and  dreamy  stood  the  city, 
Wide  and  dazzling  shone  the  sea, 
When  the  gods  set  hand  to  smother 
Ys,  the  pride  of  Brittany. 
59 


The  King  of  Ys 

Morning  drenched  her  towers  in  purple; 
Light  of  heart  were  king  and  fool; 
Fair  forebode  the  merrymaking 
Of  the  seven  days  of  Yule. 

Laughed  the  king,   "Once  more,  my  mistress, 
Time  and  place  and  joy  are  one!" 
Bade  the  balconies  with  banners 
Match  the  splendor  of  the  sun; 

Eyes  of  urchins  shine  with  silver, 
And  with  gold  the  pavement  ring; 
Bade  the  war-horns  sound  their  bravest 
In  The  Mistress  of  the  King. 

Mountebanks  and  ballad-mongers 
And  all  strolling  traffickers 
Should  block  up  the  market  corners 
With  none  other  name  than  hers. 
60 


The  King  of  Ys 

Laughed  the  fool,  "To-day,  my  Folly, 
Thou  shalt  be  the  king  of  Ys ! " 
O  wise  fool!     How  long  must  wisdom 
Under  motley  hold  her  peace? 

Then  the  storm  came  down.     The  valleys 
Wailed  and  ciphered  to  the  dune 
Like  huge  organ  pipes;  a  midnight 
Stalked  those  gala  streets  at  noon; 

And  the  sea  rose,  rocked  and  tilted 
Like  a  beaker  in  the  hand, 
Till  the  moon-hung  tide  broke  tether 
And  stampeded  in  for  land. 

All  day  long  with  doom  portentous, 
Shreds  of  pennons  shrieked  and  flew 
Over  Ys;   and  black  fear  shuddered 
On  the  hearthstone  all  night  through. 
61 


The  King  of  Ys 

Fear,  which  freezes  up  the  marrow 
Of  the  heart,  from  door  to  door 
Like  a  plague  went  through  the  city, 
And  filled  up  the  devil's  score; 

Filled  her  tally  of  the  craven, 
To  the  sea-wind's  dismal  note; 
While  a  panic  superstition 
Took  the  people  by  the  throat. 

As  with  morning  still  the  sea  rose 
With  vast  wreckage  on  the  tide, 
And  their  pasture  rills,  grown  rivers, 
Thundered  in  the  mountain  side, 

"Vengeance,  vengeance,  gods  to  vengeance!" 
Rose  a  storm  of  muttering; 
And  the  human  flood  came  pouring 
To  the  palace  of  the  king. 
62 


The  King  of  Ys 

"Save,  O  king,  before  we  perish 

In  the  whirlpools  e>f  the  sea, 

Ys  thy  city,  us  thy  people!" 

Growled  the  king  then,  "What  would  ye?" 

But  his  wolf's  eyes  talked  defiance, 
And  his  bearded  mouth  meant  scorn. 
"O  our  king,  the  gods  are  angry; 
And  no  longer  to  be  borne 

"Is  the  shameless  face  that  greets  us 
From  thy  windows,  at  thy  side, 
Smiling  infamy.     And  therefore 
Thou  shalt  take  her  up,  and  ride 

"Down  with  her  into  the  sea's  mouth, 
And  there  leave  her;  else  we  die, 
And  thy  name  goes  down  to  story 
A  new  word  for  cruelty." 

63 


The  King  of  Ys 

Ah,  but  she  was  fair,  this  woman! 
Warm  and  flaxen  waved  her  hair; 
Her  blue  Breton  eyes  made  summer 
In  that  bleak  December  air. 

There  she  stood  whose  burning  beauty 
Made  the  world's  high  roof  tree  ring, 
A  white  poppy  tall  and  wind-blown 
In  the  garden  of  the  king. 

Her  throat  shook,  but  not  with  terror; 
Her  eyes  swam,  but  not  with  fear; 
While  her  two  hands  caught  and  clung  to 
The  one  man  they  had  found  dear. 

"Lord  and  lover,"  —  thus  she  smiled  him 
Her  last  word, —  "it  shall  be  so, 
Only  the  sea's  arms  shall  hold  me, 
When  from  out  thine  arms  I  go." 
64 


The  King  of  Ys 

Swore  he,  "By  the  gods,  my  mistress, 
Thou  shalt  have  queen's  burial. 
Pearls  and  amber  shall  thy  tomb  be; 
Shot  with  gold  and  green  thy  pall. 

"And  a  million-throated  chorus 
Shall  take  up  thy  dirge  to-night; 
Where  thy  slumber's  starry  watch-fires 
Shall  a  thousand  years  be  bright." 

Then  they  brought  the  coal-black  stallion, 
Chafing  on  the  bit.     Astride 
Sprang  the  young  king;  shouted,  "Way  there!" 
Caught  the  girl  up  to  his  side; 

And  a  path  through  that  scared  rabble 
Rode  in  pageant  to  the  sea. 
And  the  coal-black  mane  was  mingled 
With  gold  hair  against  his  knee. 
65 


The  King  of  Ys 

Sure  as  the  wild  gulls  make  seaward, 
From  the  west  gate  to  the  beach 
Rode  these  two  for  whom  now  freedom 
Landward  lay  beyond  their  reach. 

And  the  great  horse,  scenting  peril, 
Snorted  at  the  flying  spume, 
Flicked  with  courage,  as  how  often, 
When  the  tides  were  racing  doom, 

Ridden,  he  had  plunged  to  rescue 
From  that  seething  icy  hell 
Some  poor  sailor  wrecked  a-fishing 
On  the  coast.     What  fears  should  quell 

That  high  spirit?     Knee  to  shoulder, 
King  and  stallion  reared  and  sprang 
Clear  above  the  long  white  combers 
And  that  turmoil's  iron  clang. 
66 


The  King  of  Ys 

What  a  launching!     For  a  moment, 
While  the  tempest  held  its  breath 
And  a  thousand  eyes  looked  wonder, 
Swimming  in  that  trough  of  death, 

Steering  seaward  through  the  welter, 
Ere  they  settled  out  of  sight, 
W'aved  above  them  one  gold  streamer. 
Valor,  bid  the  world  good-night!  .  . 

Not  a  trace,  while  the  long  summers 
Warm  the  heart  of  Brittany, 
Save  one  stone  of  Ys,  as  remnant, 
For  a  white  mark  in  the  sea. 


THE   KELPIE   RIDERS 


BURIED  alive  in  calm  Rochelle, 
Six  in  a  row  by  a  crystal  well, 

All  Summer  long  on  Bareau  Fen 
Slumber  and  sleep  the  Kelpie  men; 

By  the  side  of  each  to  cheer  his  ghost, 
A  flagon  of  foam  with  a  crumpet  of  frost. 

Hear  me,  friends,  for  the  years  are  fleet; 
Soon  I  leave  the  noise  and  the  street 
68 


The  Kelpie  Riders 

For  the  silent  uncompanioned  way 

Where  the  inn  is  cold  and  the  night  is  gray. 

But  noon  is  warm  and  the  world  is  still 
Where  the  Kelpie  riders  have  their  will. 

For  never  a  wind  dare  stir  or  stray 
Over  those  marshes  salt  and  gray; 

No  bit  of  shade  as  big  as  your  hand 
To  traverse  or  trammel  the  sleeping  land, 

Save  where  a  dozen  poplars  fleck 

The  long  gray  grass  and  the  well's  blue  beck. 

Yet  you  mark  their  leaves  are  blanched  and  sear, 
Whispering  daft  at  a  nameless  fear. 

While  round  the  bole  of  one  is  a  rune, 
Black  in  the  wash  of  the  bleaching  noon. 
69 


The  Kelpie  Riders 

"Ride,  for  the  wind  is  awake  and  away. 
Sleep,  for  the  harvest  grain  is  gray." 

No  word  more.     And  many  a  mile, 
A  ghostly  bivouac  rank  and  file, 

They  sleep  to-day  on  the  marshes  wide; 
Some  far  night  they  will  wake  and  ride. 

Once  they  were  riders  hot  with  speed, 
"Kelpie,  Kelpie,  gallop  at  need!" 

With  hills  of  the  barren  sea  to  roam, 
Housing  their  horses  on  the  foam. 

But  earth  is  cool  and  the  hush  is  long 
Beneath  the  lull  of  the  slumber  song 

The  crickets  falter  and  strive  to  tell 
To  the  dragon-fly  of  the  crystal  well; 
70 


The  Kelpie  Riders 

And  love  is  a  forgotten  jest, 

Where  the  Kelpie  riders  take  their  rest, 

And  blossoming  grasses  hour  by  hour 
Burn  in  the  bud  and  freeze  in  the  flower. 

But  never  again  shall  their  roving  be 
On  the  shifting  hills  of  the  tumbling  sea, 

With  the  salt,  and  the  rain,  and  the  glad  desire 
Strong  as  the  wind  and  pure  as  fire. 


II 


One  doomful  night  in  the  April  tide 
With  riot  of  brooks  on  the  mountain  side, 

The  goblin  maidens  of  the  hills 

Went  forth  to  the  revel-call  of  the  rills. 


The  Kelpie  Riders 

Many  as  leaves  of  the  falling  year, 

To  the  swing  of  a  ballad  wild  and  clear 

They  held  the  plain  and  the  uplands  high; 
And  the  merry-dancers  held  the  sky. 

The  Kelpie  riders  abroad  on  the  sea 
Caught  sound  of  that  call  of  eerie  glee, 

Over  their  prairie  waste  and  wan; 

And  the  goblin  maidens  tolled  them  on. 

The  yellow  eyes  and  the  raven  hair 

And  the  tawny  arms  blown  fresh  and  bare, 

Were  more  than  a  mortal  might  behold 
And  live  with  the  saints  for  a  crown  of  gold. 

The  Kelpie  riders   were  stricken  sore; 
They  wavered,  and  wheeled,  and  rode  for  the  shore, 

72 


The  Kelpie  Riders 

"Kelpie,  Kelpie,  treble  your  stride! 
Never  again  on  the  sea  we  ride. 

"Kelpie,  Kelpie,  out  of  the  storm; 
On,  for  the  fields  of  earth  are  warm!" 

Knee  to  knee  they  are  riding  in: 

"  Brother,  brother,  —  the  goblin  kin !  " 

The  meadows  rocked  as  they  clomb  the  scaur; 
The  pines  re-echo  for  evermore 

The  sound  of  the  host  of  Kelpie  men; 
But  the  windflowers  died  on  Bareau  Fen. 

Over  the  marshes  all  night  long 

The  stars  went  round  to  a  riding  song: 

"  Kelpie,   Kelpie,  carry  us  through !  " 
And  the  goblin  maidens  danced  thereto. 
73 


The  Kelpie  Riders 

Till  dawn, —  and  the  revel  died  with  a  shout, 
For  the  ocean  riders  were  wearied  out. 

They  looked,  and  the  grass  was  warm  and  soft; 
The  dreamy  clouds  went  over  aloft; 

A  gloom  of  pines  on  the  weather  verge 

Had  the  lulling  sound  of  their  own  white  surge; 

A  whip-poor-will,  far  from  their  din, 
Was  saying  his  litanies  therein. 

Then  voices  neither  loud  nor  deep: 
"Tired,  so  tired;   sleep!   ah,  sleep! 

"The  stars  are  calm,  and  the  earth  is  warm, 
But  the  sea  for  an  earldom  is  given  to  storm. 

"Come  now,  inherit  the  houses  of  doom; 
Your  fields  of  the  sun  shall  be  harried  of  gloom." 
74 


The  Kelpie  Riders 

They  laid  them  down;  but  over  long 

They  rest, —  for  the  goblin  maids  are  strong. 

The  sun  goes  round;   and  Bareau  Fen 
Is  a  door  of  earth  on  the  Kelpie  men, — 

Buried  at  dawn,  asleep,  unslain, 
With  not  a  mound  on  the  sunny  plain, 

Hard  by  the  walls  of  calm  Rochelle, 
Row  on  row  by  the  crystal  well. 

And  never  again  they  are  free  to  ride 
Through  all  the  years  on  the  tossing  tide, 

Barred  from  the  breast  of  the  barren  foam, 
Where  the  heart  within  them  is  yearning  home,- 

For  one  long  drench  of  the  surf  to  quell 
The  cursing  doom  of  the  goblin  spell. 
75 


The  Kelpie  Riders 

Only,  when  bugling  snows  alight 

To  smother  the  marshes  stark  and  white, 

Or  a  low  red  moon  peers  over  the  rim 
Of  a  winter  twilight  crisp  and  dim, 

With  a  sound  of  drift  on  the  buried  lands, 
The  goblin  maidens  loose  their  hands; 

A  wind  comes  down  from  the  sheer  blue  North; 
And  the  Kelpie  riders  get  them  forth. 


Ill 


Twice  have  I  been  on  Bareau  Fen, 

But  the  son  of  my  son  is  a  man  since  then. 

Once  as  a  lad  I  used  to  bear 
St.  Louis'  cross  through  the  chapel  square, 
76 


The  Kelpie  Riders 

Leading  the  choristers'  surpliced  file 
Slow  up  the  dusk  Cathedral  aisle. 

I  was  the  boy  of  all  Rochelle 
The  pure  old  father  trusted  well. 

But  one  clear  night  in  the  winter's  heart, 
I  wandered  out  to  that  place  apart. 

The  shafts  of  smoke  went  up  to  the  stars, 
Straight  as  the  Northern  Streamer  spars, 

From  the  town's  white  roofs,  so  still  it  was. 
The  night  in  her  dream  let  no  word  pass, 

Nor  ever  a  breath  that  one  could  feel; 
Only  the  snow  shrieked  under  my  heel. 

Yet  it  seemed  when  I  reached  the  poplar  bole, 
The  ghost  of  a  voice  was  crying,  "Skoal! 

77 


The  Kelpie  Riders 

"Rouse  thee  and  drink,  for  the  well  is  sweet, 
And  the  crystal  snow  is  good  to  eat ! " 

I  heeded  little,  but  stooped  on  my  knee, 
And  ate  of  a  handful  dreamily. 

'Twas  cool  to  the  mouth  and  slaking  at  first, 
But  the  lure  of  it  was  ill  for  thirst. 

The  voice  cried,  "Soul  of  the  mortal  span, 
Art  thou  not  of  the  Kelpie  clan?" 

"What  are  you  doing  there  in  the  ground, 
Kelpie  rider,  and  never  a  sound 

"To  roam  the  night  but  the  ghost  of  a  cry?" 
Ringing  and  swift  there  came  reply, 

"He  is  asleep  where  thou  art  afraid, 
In  the  tawny  arms  of  a  goblin  maid!" 
78 


The  Kelpie  Riders 

Then  I  knew  the  voice  was  the  voice  of  a  girl, 
And  I  marvelled  much  (while  a  little  swirl 

Of  snow  leaped  up  far  off  on  the  plain 
Of  sparkling  dust  and  died  again), 

For  what  do  the  cloisters  know,  think  ye, 
Of  women's  ways?    They  be  hard  to  see. 

Again  the  voice  cried,   "Kin  of  my  kin, 
The  child  of  the  Sun  shall  win,  shall  win!" 

'Twas  an  evil  weird  that  so  befell; 

Yet  I  leaned  and  drank  of  the  bubbling  well. 

I  looked  for  my  face  in  the  crystal  spring, 
But  the  face  that  flickered  there  was  a  thing 

To  make  the  nape  of  your  neck  grow  chill, 
.And  every  vein  surge  back  and  thrill 
79 


The  Kelpie  Riders 

With  a  passion  for  something  not  their  own  — 
In  a  life  their  life  has  never  known. 

For  raven  hair  and  eyes  like  the  sun 
Are  merry  but  dour  to  look  upon. 

She  smiled  through  her  lashes  under  the  wave, 
And  my  soul  went  forth  her  bartered  slave. 

I  swore,   "By  St.  Louis,  I'll  come  to  thee, 
Though  I  ride  to  my  doom  in  the  gulfs  of  the  sea! 

"Thy  Kelpie  rider  shall  wake  and  rue 
His  ruined  life  in  the  loss  of  you." 

Then  I  fled  in  the  start  of  a  terror  of  joy, 
O'er  leagues  where  a  legion  might  deploy; 

For  the  acres  of  snow  were  level  and  hard, 
Every  flake  like  a  crystal  shard. 
80 


The  Kelpie  Riders 

I  was  the  runner  of  all  Rochelle, 

Could  run  with  the  hounds  on  Haric  Fell; 

And  something  stark  as  a  gust  of  the  sea 
Had  a  grip  of  the  whimsy  boy  in  me. 

I  ran  like  the  drift  on  the  ice  low  curled 

When  the  winds  of  Yule  are  abroad  on  the  world, 

Sudden,  the  beat  of  a  throbbing  sound 
Lost  in  the  core  of  the  blue  profound: 

"Kelpie,  Kelpie,  Kelpie,  come!" 

Was  it  my  heart?  —  But  my  heart  was  numb. 

"Kelpie,  Kelpie!"     Was  it  the  sea? 
Far  on,  at  the  verge  of  Bareau  lea, 

I  saw  like  an  army,  shield  and  casque, 
The  breakers  roll  in  the  Roads  of  Basque. 
G  81 


The  Kelpie  Riders 

"Kelpie,  Kelpie!"     Was  it  the  wolves? 
In  the  dusk  of  pines  where  night  dissolves 

To  streamers  and  stars  through  the  mountain  gorge, 
I  heard  the  blast  of  a  giant  forge. 

Then  I  knew  the  wind  was  awake  from  the  North, 
And  the  ocean  riders  were  freed  and  forth. 

Time,  there  is  time  (now  gallop,  my  heart!) 
Ere  the  black  riders  disperse  and  depart. 

The  dawn  is  late,  but  the  dawn  comes  round, 
And  Fleetfoot  Jean  has  the  wind  of  a  hound. 

The  hue  and  cry  of  the  Kelpie  horde 

Was  growing  and  grim  on  that  white  seaboard. 

It  rolled  and  gathered  and  died  and  grew 
Far  off  to  the  rear;   a  smile  thereto 
82 


The  Kelpie  Riders 

I  turned;  a  fathom  behind  my  ear 
A  rider  rode  with  a  shadowy  leer. 

I  sickened  and  sped.     He  laughed  aloud, 
"Wind  for  a  mourner,  snow  for  a  shroud!" 

On  and  on,  half  blown,  half  blind, 
Shadow  and  self,  and  the  wind  behind! 

I  slackened,  he  slackened;  I  fled,  he  flew; 
In  a  swirl  of  snow-drift  all  night  through 

I  scoured  along  the  gusty  fen, 
A  quarry  for  hunting  Kelpie  men. 

But  only  one  could  hold  at  my  side : 
"Brother,  brother,  I  love  thy  stride. 

"Wilt  thou  follow  thy  whim  to  win 
My  merry  maid  of  the  goblin  kin?" 


The  Kelpie  Riders 

I  swerved  from  my  trail,  for  he  haunted  my  ear 
With  his  moaning  jibe  and  his  shadowy  leer. 

So  by  good  hap  as  we  sped  it  fell, 
I  fetched  a  circuit  back  for  the  well. 

Like  a  spilth  of  spume  on  the  crest  of  the  bore 
When  the  combing  tides  make  in  for  shore, 

That  runner  ran  whose  love  was  a  wraith; 
But  the  rider  rode  with  revenge  in  his  teeth. 

Another  league,  and  I  touch  the  goal, — 
The  mystic  rune  on  the  poplar  bole, — 

When  the  dusky  eyes  and  the  raven  hair 

And  the  lithe  brown  arms  shall  greet  me  there. 

I  ran  like  a  harrier  on  the  trace 
In  the  leash  of  that  ghoul,  and  the  wind  gave  chase. 

84 


The  Kelpie  Riders 

A  furlong  now;  I  caught  the  gleam 

Of  the  bubbling  well  with  its  tiny  stream; 

An  arrowy  burst;   I  cleared  the  beck; 
And  —  the  Kelpie  rider  bestrode  my  neck. 
********* 
Dawn,  the  still  red  winter  dawn; 
I  awoke  on  the  plain;   the  wind  was  gone;  — 

All  gracious  and  good  as  when  God  made 
The  living  creatures,  and  none  was  afraid. 

I  stooped  to  drink  of  the  wholesome  spring 
Under  the  poplars  whispering: 

Face  to  my  face  in  that  water  clear  — 
The  Kelpie  rider's  jabbering  leer! 

Ah,  God!  not  me:   I  was  never  so! 
Sainted  Louis,  who  can  know 
85 


The  Kelpie  Riders 

The  lords  of  life  from  the  slaves  of  death? 
What  help  avail  the  speeding  breath 

Of  the  spirit  that  knows  not  self's  abode, — 
When  the  soul  is  lost  that  knows  not  God? 

I  turned  me  home  by  St.  Louis'  Hall, 
Where  the  red  sun  burns  on  the  windows  tall. 

And  I  thought  the  world  was  strange  and  wild,. 
And  God  with  his  altar  only  a  child. 


IV 


Again  one  year  in  the  prime  of  June, 
I  came  to  the  well  in  the  heated  noon, 

Leaving  Rochelle  with  its  red  roof  tiles 
By  the  Pottery  Gate  before  St.  Giles, — 
86 


The  Kelpie  Riders 

There  where  the  flower  market  is, 
Where  every  morning  up  from  Duprisse 

The  flower  girls  come  by  the  long  white  lane 
That  skirts  the  edge  of  Bareau  plain;  — 

To  the  North,  the  city  wall  in  the  sun, 
To  the  left,  the  fen  where  the  eye  may  run 

And  have  its  will  of  the  blazing  blue. 
The  while  I  loitered  the  market  through, 

Halting  a  moment  to  converse 

With  old  Babette  who  had  been  my  nurse, 

There  passed  through  the  stalls  a  woman,  bright 
With  a  kirtle  of  cinnabar  and  white 

Among  the  kerseys  blue;   and  I  said, 
"Who  is  it,  Babette,  with  lifted  head, 
87 


The  Kelpie  Riders 

"And  the  startled  look,  possessed  and  strange, 
Under  the  paint  —  secure  from  change?" 

"Ah,   'Sieur  Jean,  do  ye  not  ken 
Of  the  eerie  folk  of  Bareau  Fen?" 

I  blenched,  and  she  knew  too  well  I  wist 
The  fearsome  fate  of  the  goblin  tryst. 

"The  street  is  a  cruel  home,   'Sieur  Jean, 
But  a  weird  uncanny  drives  her  on. 

"'Tis  a  bitter  tale  for  Christian  folk, 

How  once  she  dreamed,  and  how  she  woke," 

"Ay,  ay!"     I  passed  and  reached  the  spring 
Where  the  poplars  kept  their  whispering, 

Hid  for  an  hour  in  the  shade, 
In  the  rank  marsh  grass  of  a  tiny  glade. 
88 


The  Kelpie  Riders 

There  crossed  the  moor  from  the  town  afar, 
In  kirtle  of  white  and  cinnabar, 

A  wanderer  on  that  plain  of  tears, 
Bowed  with  a  burden  not  of  the  years, 

As  one  that  goeth  sorrowing 
For  many  an  unforgotten  thing. 

To  the  crystal  well  as  the  sun  drew  low 
There  came  that  harridan  of  woe. 

She  stooped  to  drink;    I  heard  her  cry: 
"Ah,  God,  how  tired  out  am  I! 

"I  called  him  by  the  dearest  name 
A  girl  may  call;  I  have  my  shame. 

"'Yet  death  is  crueller  than  life,' 
Once  they  said,  'for  all  the  strife.' 
89 


The  Kelpie  Riders 

"And  so  I  lived;   but  the  wild  will, 
Broken  and  bitter,  drives  to  ill. 

"And  now  I  know,  what  no  one  saith, 
That  love  is  crueller  than  death. 

"How  I  did  love  him!     Is  love  too  high, 
My  God,  for  such  lost  folk  as  I?" 

Her  tears  went  down  to  the  grass  by  the  well, 
In  that  passion  of  grief,  and  where  they  fell 

Windflowers  trembled  pale  and  white. 
A  craven  I  crept  away  from  the  sight; 

And  turned  me  home  to  St.  Louis'  Hall, 
Where  the  sunflowers  burn  by  the  eastern  wall. 

The  vesper  frankincense  that  day 
Rose  to  the  rafters  and  melted  away, 
90 


The  Kelpie  Riders 

And  was  no  more  than  a  cloud  that  stirs 
Among  the  spires  of  Norway  firs. 

And  I  said,  "The  holy  solitude 

Of  the  hoary  crypt  and  the  wild  green  wood 

"Are  one  to  the  God  I  have  never  known, 
Whose  kingdom  has  neither  bourn  nor  throne." 


Now  I  am  old,  and  the  years  delay; 

But  I  know,  I  know,  there  will  come  a  day, — 

When  April  is  over  the  Norland  town, 

And  the  loosened  brooks  from  the  hills  go  down, 

When  tears  have  quenched  the  sorrow  of  time, — 
Wherein  the  earth  shall  rebuild  her  prime, 


The  Kelpie  Riders 

And  the  houses  of  dark  be  overthrown; 

When  the  goblin  maids  shall  love  their  own, — 

Their  arms  forever  unlaced  from  their  hold 
Of  the  earls  of  the  sea  on  that  alien  wold, — 

And  the  feckless  light  of  their  golden  eyes 
Shall  forget  the  desire  that  made  them  wise; 

When  the  hands  of  the  foam  shall  beckon  and  flee, 
And  the  Kelpie  riders  ride  for  the  sea; 

And  the  whip-poor-will  the  whole  night  long 
Repeat  his  litanies  of  song, 

Till  morning  whiten  the  world  again, 
And  the  flowers  revive  on  Bareau  Fen, 

Over  the  acres  of  calm  Rochelle 
Fresh  by  the  stream  of  the  crystal  well. 

92 


NOONS  OF   POPPY 

NOONS  of  poppy,  noons  of  poppy, 
Scarlet  leagues  along  the  sea; 
Flaxen  hair  afloat  in  sunlight, 
Love,  come  down  the  world  to  me! 

There's  a  Captain  I  must  ship  with, 
(Heart,  that  day  be  far  from  now!) 
Wears  his  dark  command  in  silence 
With  the  sea- frost  on  his  brow. 

Noons  of  poppy,  noons  of  poppy, 
Purple  shadows  by  the  sea; 
How  should  love  take  thought  to  wonder 
What  the  destined  port  may  be? 
93 


Noons  of  Poppy 

Nay,  if  love  have  joy  for  shipmate 
For  a  night-watch  or  a  year, 
Dawn  will  light  o'er  Lonely  Haven, 
Heart  to  happy  heart,  as  here. 

Noons  of  poppy,  noons  of  poppy, 
Scarlet  acres  by  the  sea 
Burning  to  the  blue  above  them; 
Love,  the  world  is  full  for  me. 


94 


LEGENDS   OF   LOST  HAVEN 

THERE  are  legends  of  Lost  Haven, 
Come,  I  know  not  whence,  to  me, 
When  the  wind  is  in  the  clover, 
When  the  sun  is  on  the  sea. 

There  are  rumors  in  the  pine-tops, 
There  are  whispers  in  the  grass; 
And  the  flocking  crows  at  nightfall 
Bring  home  hints  of  things  that  pass 

Out  upon  the  broad  dike  yonder, 
All  day  long  beneath  the  sun, 
Where  the  tall  ships  cloud  and  settle 
Down  the  sea-curve,  one  by  one. 
95 


Legends  of  Lost  Haven 

And  the  crickets  in  fine  chorus  — 
Every  slim  and  tiny  reed  — 
Strive  to  chord  the  broken  rhythmus 
Of  the  world,  and  half  succeed. 

There  are  myriad  traditions 
Treasured  by  the  talking  rain; 
And  with  memories  the  moonlight 
Walks  the  cold  and  silent  plain. 

Where  the  river  tells  his  hill-tales 
To  the  lone  complaining  bar, 
Where  the  midgets  thread  their  dances 
To  the  yellow  twilight  star, 

Where  the  blossom  bends  to  hearken 
To  the  bee  with  velvet  bands, 
There  are  chronicles  enciphered 
Of  the  yet  uncharted  lands. 
96 


Legends  of  Lost  Haven 

All  the  musical  marauders 
Of  the  berry  and  the  bloom 
Sing  the  lure  of  soul's  illusion 
Out  of  darkness,  out  of  doom. 

But  the  sure  and  great  evangel 
Comes  when  half  alone  I  hear, 
At  the  rosy  door  of  silence, 
Love,  the  lord  of  speech,  draw  near. 

Then  for  once  across  the  threshold, 
Darkling  spirit,  thou  art  free, — 
As  thy  hope  is  every  ship  makes 
Some  lost  haven  of  the  sea. 


97 


THE   SHADOW   BOATSWAIN 

DON'T  you  know  the  sailing  orders? 
It  is  time  to  put  to  sea, 
And  the  stranger  in  the  harbor 
Sends  a  boat  ashore  for  me. 

With  the  thunder  of  her  canvas 
Coming  on  the  wind  again, 
I  can  hear  the  Shadow  Boatswain 
Piping  to  his  shadow  men. 

Is  it  firelight  or  morning, 
That  red  flicker  on  the  floor? 
Your  good-by  was  braver,  sweetheart, 
When  I  sailed  away  before. 


The  Shadow  Boatswain 

Think  of  this  last  lovely  summer! 
Love,  what  ails  the  wind  to-night? 
What's  he  saying  in  the  chimney 
Turns  your  berry  cheek  so  white? 

What  a  morning!     How  the  sunlight 
Sparkles  on  the  outer  bay, 
Where  the  brig  lies  waiting  for  me 
To  trip  anchor  and  away! 

That's  the  Doomkeel.     You  may  know  her 
By  her  clean  run  aft;    and,  then, 
Don't  you  hear  the  Shadow  Boatswain 
Piping  to  his  shadow  men? 

Off  the  freshening  sea  to  windward, 
Is  it  a  white  tern  I  hear 
Shrilling  in  the  gusty  weather 
Where  the  far  sea-line  is  clear? 
99 


The  Shadow  Boatswain 

What  a  morning  for  departure! 
How  your  blue  eyes  melt  and  shine! 
Will  you  watch  us  from  the  headland 
Till  we  sink  below  the  line? 

I  can  see  the  wind  already 
Steer  the  scurf  marks  of  the  tide, 
As  we  slip  the  wake  of  being 
Down  the  sloping  world  and  wide. 

I  can  feel  the  vasty  mountains 
Heave  and  settle  under  me, 
And  the  Doomkeel  veer  and  shudder, 
Crumbling  on  the  hollow  sea. 

There's  a  call,  as  when  a  white  gull 
Cries  and  beats  across  the  blue; 
That  must  be  the  Shadow  Boatswain 
Piping  to  his  shadow  crew. 
100 


The  Shadow  Boatswain 

There's  a  boding  sound,  like  winter 
When  the  pines  begin  to  quail; 
That  must  be  the  gray  wind  moaning 
In  the  belly  of  the  sail. 

I  can  feel  the  icy  fingers 
Creeping  in  upon  my  bones; 
There  must  be  a  berg  to  windward 
Somewhere  in  these  border  zones. 

Stir  the  fire.  ...     I  love  the  sunlight,- 
Always  loved  my  shipmate  sun. 
How  the  sunflowers  beckon  to  me 
From  the  dooryard  one  by  one ! 

How  the  royal  lady  roses 
Strew  this  summer  world  of  ours! 
There'll  be  none  in  Lonely  Haven; 
It  is  too  far  north  for  flowers. 
101 


The  Shadow  Boatswain 

There,  sweetheart!     And  I  must  leave  you. 
What  should  touch  my  wife  with  tears? 
There's  no  danger  with  the  Master; 
He  has  sailed  the  sea  for  years. 

With  the  sea-wolves  on  her  quarter, 
And  a  white  bone  in  her  teeth, 
He  will  steer  the  shadow  cruiser, 
Dark  before  and  doom  beneath, 

Down  the  last  expanse,  till  morning 
Flares  above  the  broken  sea, 
And  the  midnight  storm  is  over, 
And  the  Isles  are  close  alee. 

So  some  twilight,  when  your  roses 
Are  all  blown  and  it  is  June, 
You  will  turn  your  blue  eyes  seaward 
Through  the  white  dusk  of  the  moon, 
102 


The  Shadow  Boatswain 

Wondering,  as  that  far  sea-cry 
Comes  upon  the  wind  again, 
And  you  hear  the  Shadow  Boatswain 
Piping  to  his  shadow  men. 


103 


THE   MASTER   OF  THE   ISLES 

THERE  is  rumor  in  Dark  Harbor, 
And  the  folk  are  all  astir; 
For  a  stranger  in  the  offing 
Draws  them  down  to  gaze  at  her, 

In  the  gray  of  early  morning, 
Black  against  the  orange  streak, 
Making  in  below  the  ledges, 
With  no  colors  at  her  peak. 

Something  makes  their  hearts  uneasy 
As  they  watch  the  long  black  hull, 
For  she  brings  the  storm  behind  her 
While  before  her  there  is  lull. 
104 


The  Master  of  the  Isles 

With  no  pilot  and  unspoken, 
Where  the  dancing  breakers  are, 
Presently  she  veers  and  races 
In  across  the  roaring  bar, — 

Rounds  and  luffs  and  comes  to  anchor, 
While  the  wharf  begins  to  throng. 
Silence  falls  upon  the  women, 
And  misgiving  stirs  the  strong. 

Then  with  some  obscure  foreboding, 
As  a  gray-haired  watcher  smiles, 
They  perceive  the  fearless  captain 
Is  the  Master  of  the  Isles. 

They  recall  the  bleak  December 
Many  streaming  years  ago, 
When  the  stranger  had  been  sighted 
Driving  shoreward  with  the  snow; 
105 


The  Master  of  the  Isles 

When  the  Master  came  among  them 
With  his  calm  and  courtly  pride, 
And  had  sailed  away  at  sundown 
With  pale  Dora  for  his  bride; 

How  again  he  came  one  summer 
When  the  herring  schools  were  late, 
And  had  cleared  before  the  morning 
With  old  Alec's  son  for  mate. 

There  was  glamour  with  the  Master; 
He  had  tales  of  far-off  seas; 
But  his  habit  and  demeanor 
Were  of  other  lands  than  these. 

He  had  never  made  the  Harbor 
But  there  sailed  away  with  him 
Wife  or  child  or  friend  or  lover, 
Leaving  eyes  to  strain  and  swim, — 
1 06 


The  Master  of  the  Isles 

Strain  and  wait  for  their  returning; 
Yet  they  never  had  come  back; 
For  the  pale  wake  of  the  Master 
Is  a  wandering,  fading  track. 

Just  beyond  our  utmost  fathom 
Is  the  anchorage  we  crave, 
But  the  Master  knows  the  soundings 
By  the  reach  of  every  wave. 

Just  beyond  the  last  horizon, 
Vague  upon  the  weather-gleam, 
Loom  the  Faroff  Isles  forever, 
The  tradition  of  a  dream. 

There  a  white  and  brooding  summer 
Haunts  upon  the  gray  sea-plain, 
Where  the  gray  sea-winds  are  quiet 
At  the  sources  of  the  rain. 
107 


The  Master  of  the  Isles 

There  where  all  world-weary  dreamers 
Get  them  forth  to  their  release, 
Lie  the  colonies  of  the  kindred, 
In  the  provinces  of  peace. 

Thither  in  the  stormy  sunset 
Will  the  Master  sail  to-night; 
And  the  village  will  be  silent 
When  he  drops  below  the  light 

Not  a  soul  on  all  the  hillside 
But  will  watch  her  when  she  clears, 
Dreaming  of  the  Port  o'  Strangers 
In  the  roadstead  of  the  years. 

"Port  o'  Strangers,  Port  o'  Strangers!" 
"Where  away?"     "On  the  weather  bow." 
"  Drive  her  down  the  closing  distance ! "  . 
That's  to-morrow,  but  not  now. 
108 


The  Master  of  the  Isles 

What  imperial  adventure 
Some  wide  morning  it  will  be, 
Sweeping  in  to  Lonely  Haven 
From  the  chartless  round  of  sea! 

How  imposing  a  departure, 
While  this  little  harbor  smiles, 
Steering  for  the  outer  sea-rim 
With  the  Master  of  the  Isles! 


109 


THE   LAST  WATCH 

COMRADES,  comrades,  have  me  buried 
Like  a  warrior  of  the  sea, 
With  a  flag  across  my  breast 
And  my  sword  upon  my  knee. 

Steering  out  from  vanished  headlands 
For  a  harbor  on  no  chart, 
With  the  winter  in  the  rigging, 
With  the  ice-wind  in  my  heart, 

Down  the  bournless  slopes  of  sea-room, 
With  the  long  gray  wake  behind, 
I  have  sailed  my  cruiser  steady 
With  no  pilot  but  the  wind, 
no 


The  Last  Watch 

Battling  with  relentless  pirates 
From  the  lower  seas  of  Doom, 
I  have  kept  the  colors  flying 
Through  the  roar  of  drift  and  gloom. 

Scudding  where  the  shadow  foemen 
Hang  about  us  grim  and  stark, 
Broken  spars  and  shredded  canvas, 
We  are  racing  for  the  dark. 

Sped  and  blown  abaft  the  sunset 
Like  a  shriek  the  storm  has  caught; 
But  the  helm  is  lashed  to  windward, 
And  the  sails  are  sheeted  taut. 

Comrades,  comrades,  have  me  buried 
Like  a  warrior  of  the  night. 
I  can  hear  the  bell-buoy  calling 
Down  below  the  harbor  light. 
in 


The  Last  Watch 

Steer  in  shoreward,  loose  the  signal, 
The  last  watch  has  been  cut  short; 
Speak  me  kindly  to  the  islesmen, 
When  we  make  the  foreign  port. 

We  shall  make  it  ere  the  morning 
Rolls  the  fog  from  strait  and  bluff; 
Where  the  offing  crimsons  eastward 
There  is  anchorage  enough. 

How  I  wander  in  my  dreaming! 
Are  we  northing  nearer  home, 
Or  outbound  for  fresh  adventure 
On  the  reeling  plains  of  foam? 

North  I  think  it  is,  my  comrades, 
Where  one  heart-beat  counts  for  ten, 
Where  the  loving  hand  is  loyal, 
And  the  women's  sons  are  men; 
112 


The  Last  Watch 

Where  the  red  auroras  tremble 
When  the  polar  night  is  still, 
Lighting  home  the  worn  seafarers 
To  their  haven  in  the  hill. 

Comrades,  comrades,  have  me  buried 
Like  a  warrior  of  the  North. 
Lower  me  the  long-boat,  stay  me 
In  your  arms,  and  bear  me  forth; 

Lay  me  in  the  sheets  and  row  me, 
With  the  tiller  in  my  hand, 
Row  me  in  below  the  beacon 
Where  my  sea-dogs  used  to  land. 

Has  your  captain  lost  his  cunning 
After  leading  you  so  far? 
Row  me  your  last  league,  my  sea-kings; 
It  is  safe  within  the  bar. 
113 


The  Last  Watch 

Shoulder  me  and  house  me  hillward, 
Where  the  field-lark  makes  his  bed, 
So  the  gulls  can  wheel  above  me, 
All  day  long  when  I  am  dead; 

Where  the  keening  wind  can  find  me 
With  the  April  rain  for  guide, 
And  come  crooning  her  old  stories 
Of  the  kingdoms  of  the  tide. 

Comrades,  comrades,  have  me  buried 
Like  a  warrior  of  the  sun; 
I  have  carried  my  sealed  orders 
Till  the  last  command  is  done. 

Kiss  me  on  the  cheek  for  courage, 
(There  is  none  to  greet  me  home,) 
Then  farewell  to  your  old  lover 
Of  the  thunder  of  the  foam; 
114 


The  Last  Watch 

For  the  grass  is  full  of  slumber 
In  the  twilight  world  for  me, 
And  my  tired  hands  are  slackened 
From  their  toiling  on  the  sea. 


OUTBOUND 

A  LONELY  sail  in  the  vast  sea-room, 
I  have  put  out  for  the  port  of  gloom. 

The  voyage  is  far  on  the  trackless  tide, 
The  watch  is  long,  and  the  seas  are  wide. 

The  headlands  blue  in  the  sinking  day 
Kiss  me  a  hand  on  the  outward  way. 

The  fading  gulls,  as  they  dip  and  veer. 
Lift  me  a  voice  that  is  good  to  hear. 

The  great  winds  come,  and  the  heaving  sea, 
The  restless  mother,   is  calling  me. 
116 


Outbound 

The  cry  of  her  heart  is  lone  and  wild, 
Searching  the  night  for  her  wandered  child. 

Beautiful,  weariless  mother  of  mine, 

In  the  drift  of  doom  I  am  here,  I  am  thine. 

Beyond  the  fathom  of  hope  or  fear, 
From  bourn  to  bourn  of  the  dusk  I  steer, 

Swept  on  in  the  wake  of  the  stars,  in  the  stream 
Of  a  roving  tide,  from  dream  to  dream. 


117 


By        BLISS        CARMAN 
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Of  the  seven  poems  making  up  the  collection,  five  directly  reflect  the 
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pieces,  "  December  in  Scituate  "  and  "  Winter  at  Tortoise  Shell,"  de- 
pict in  sharp  contrast,  yet  with  equal  charm,  New  England  winter 
scenes  indoors  and  out.  They  show  that  this  poet's  remarkable  gift 
for  nature-description  is  as  much  in  evidence  when  dealing  with  win- 
ter's monochromes  as  when  moved  by  all  the  vibrancy  and  bloom  of 
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G.  H.  B.,— 

I  shut  myself  in  with  my  soul, 
And  the  shapes  come  eddying  forth," — 

explains  the  tenor  of  its  contents,  which,  for  the  most  part  in  a 
minor  key,  are  full  of  thought,  of  suggestion,  and  of  the  connec- 
tion between  soul  and  spirit.  Mr.  Meteyard  has  admirably 
caught  the  subtle  suggestions  of  the  text,  and  his  illustrations 
add  greatly  to  its  expression. 

The  collection  is  of  exceptional  merit,  and  besides  its  poetic  quality 
has  two  excellent  characteristics  :  it  awakens  interest  and  compels 
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which,  separately  published  some  years  ago,  aroused  the  admi- 
ration of  the  critics. 

As  a  maker  of  ballads,  imaginative  and  full  of  haunting  memory,  Mr. 
Carman  is  easily  the  master  among  his  contemporaries.  —  The  Critic. 

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Songs  from  Vagabondia 

By  BLISS   CARMAN  6-  RICHARD   HOVEY 

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A  book  full  of  the  rapture  of  the  open  air  and  the  open  road,  of  the 
wayside  tavern  bench,  the  April  weather,  and  the  "  manly  love  of  com- 
rades." .  .  .  The  charm  and  interest  of  the  book  consist  in  the  real, 
frank  jollity  of  mood  and  manner,  the  gypsy  freedom,  the  intimate, 
natural  happiness  of  these  marching,  drinking,  fighting,  and  loving 
songs.  They  proclaim  a  blithe,  sane,  and  hearty  Bohemianism  in 
the  opening  lines.  .  .  .  The  mood  is  an  unusual  one,  especially  in 
verse,  but  welcome,  if  only  as  a  change,  after  the  desperate  melan- 
choly, the  heart-sickness,  and  life-weariness  of  the  average  verse-writer 
—  London  Athenaum. 

Between  the  close  covers  of  this  narrow  book  there  are  some  fifty- 
odd  pages  of  good  verse  that  Bobby  Burns  would  have  shouted  at  his 
plough  to  see  and  Elia  Lamb  would  have  praised  in  immortal  essays. 
These  are  sound,  healthy  poems,  with  a  bit  of  honest  pathos  here  and 
there,  to  be  sure,  but  made  in  the  sunlight  and  nurtured  with  whole- 
some, manly  humors.  There  is  not  a  bit  of  intellectual  hypochondria 
in  the  little  book,  and  there  is  not  a  line  that  was  made  in  the  sweat  of 
the  brow.  They  are  the  free,  untrammelled  songs  of  men  who  sing 
because  their  hearts  are  full  of  music,  and  who  have  their  own  way  of 
singing,  too.  These  are  not  the  mere  echoes  of  the  old  organ  voices. 
They  are  the  merry  pipings  of  song-birds,  and  they  bear  the  gift  of 
nature.  —  New  York  Times. 

The  authors  of  the  small  joint  volume  called  "  Songs  from  Vaga- 
'bondia"  have  an  unmistakable  right  to  the  name  of  poet.  These 
little  snatches  have  the  spirit  of  a  gypsy  Omar  Khayyim.  They  have 
always  careless  verve,  and  often  careless  felicity ;  they  are  masculine 
and  rough,  as  roving  songs  should  be.  .  .  .  You  have  the  whole  spirit 
of  the  book  in  such  an  unforgettable  little  lyric  as  "  In  the  House  of 
Idiedaily." —  FRANCIS  THOMPSON,  in  Merry  England. 


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More  Songs  from  Vagabondia 

By  BLISS   CARMAN  &  RICHARD   HOVEY 

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The  second  volume  is  no  less  worthy  of  welcome  than  the  first. 
We  find  the  same  ardent  imagination,  the  same  delicacy  and  grace  of 
rhythm  as  before.  —  Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 

The  muse  of  these  poems  may  be  a  reckless,  wanton  baggage  .  .  . 
but  her  eyes  are  as  honest  as  the  growth  of  a  tree  or  the  movement  of 
a  deer,  and  she  is  as  clean  and  wholesome  as  a  burgeoning  spring  noon. 
—  Boston  Journal. 

HJW  long  is  it  since  another  volume  appeared  so  packed  with  high 
spirits  and  good  humor?  Certainly  not  since  the  original  "Songs 
from  Vagabondia  "  came  out.  The  poetry  fairly  bubbles  over, —  even 
over  into  the  inside  of  the  covers,  where  some  verses  are  enshrined  in 
drawings.  It  is  a  book  that  makes  the  reader  young  again.  —  Buffalo 
Express. 

Hail  to  the  poets  !  Good  poets  !  Real  poets  !  .  .  .  They  are  the 
free,  untrammelled  songs  of  men  who  sing  because  their  hearts  are  full 
of  music  ;  and  they  have  their  own  way  of  singing,  too.  "  Songs  from 
Vagabondia"  ought  to  go  singing  themselves  into  every  library  from 
Denver  to  both  seas,  for  they  are  good  to  know.  —  New  York  Times. 

These  gentlemen  have  something  to  say,  and  they  say  it  in  a  hale 
and  ready  way  that  is  as  convincing  as  it  is  artistic.  One  is  not  met 
at  every  turn  by  some  platitude  laboriously  wrought,  which  the  minor 
poets  nowadays  so  delight  in,  but  a  ring  and  a  cheer  and  a  manner 
neither  obscure  nor  commonplace,  with  just  enough  mystery  to  delight 
and  stimulate  the  imagination  without  overtaxing  it.  —  Washington 
Star. 

The  pulsing  of  warm,  youthful  blood,  the  joy  of  living,  and  comrade- 
ship are  enclosed  between  the  covers  of  "  More  Songs  from  Vaga- 
bondia." The  poems  are  full  of  exuberant  vitality,  with  a  fine  and 
energetic  rhythm.  —  The  Argonaut. 


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Last   Songs   from   Vagabondia 

By    BLISS    CARMAN    <&-    RICHARD    HOVEY 

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This  third  collection  makes  a  fitting  close  to  the  fresh  and 
exhilarating  poetry  of  the  two  preceding  volumes  of  the  series. 
It  contains,  in  addition  to  verses  set  aside  for  this  purpose  by 
both  authors  prior  to  Mr.  Hovey's  death,  certain  later  poems 
by  Mr.  Carman,  reminiscent  of  his  friend  and  fellow-vagabond. 

"  The  sight  of  '  Last  Songs  from  Vagabondia'  must  raise  a 
pang  in  many  breasts,  a  remembrance  of  two  best  of  comrades 
sundered.  They  were  mad  carols,  those  early  Vagabondian 
lays,  with  here  and  there  a  song  more  seriously  tuned,  but 
beyond  their  joyous  ebullition  were  beauty  of  no  uncertain 
quality,  the  riches  of  Vagabondia  —  love  and  youth  and  com- 
radeship—  and  the  glamour  of  the  great  world  unexplored. 
All  those  qualities  are  embodied  in  these  '  Last  Songs,'  nor  is 
the  joy  in  living  absent,  only  softened  to  a  soberer  tone.  The 
themes  vary  little,  the  joys  of  the  road  are  still  undimmed, 
there  is  ever  closer  cleaving  of  comrade  to  comrade,  and  there 
is  the  old  buckling  on  of  bravery  against  the  battle;  under- 
neath all  this  a  note  hitherto  unheard  in  Vagabondia,  a  sense  of 
the  inescapable  loneliness  of  every  soul.  Both  Mr.  Carman 
and  Mr.  Hovey  have  perfect  command  of  the  lyric  form,  both 
the  power  to  -imprison  in  richly  colored  verse  a  complete 
expression  of  the  wander-spirit."  —  Boston  Transcript. 

"  Worthy  to  take  their  place  alongside  their  charming  and 
inspiriting  predecessors."  —  Boston  Journal. 

"  One  finds  in  this  volume  the  breadth  of  view,  the  spon- 
taneous joy,  the  unexpected  outlook,  and  the  felicity  of 
touch  which  betray  the  true  poet."  —  The  Outlook. 

"  The  charm  of  the  verses,  especially  of  the  lyrics,  is  as  great  in 
this  as  in  the  two  previous  volumes." —  New  Orleans  Picayune. 

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By      RICHARD      HOVEY 

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A  POEM  IN  DRAMAS. 

I.  The  QUEST  of  MERLIN.  II.  The  MARRIAGE  O/GUENEVERE. 
III.  The  BIRTH  O/GALAHAD.  IV.  TALIESIN. 

V.   The  HOLY  GRAAL  (in  preparation). 

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Reviewing  the  first  three  volumes  of  this  work,  George 
Hamlin  Fitch  wrote  as  follows  in  the  San  Francisco  Chronicle: 

"  A  new  poet,  saturated  with  the  spirit  of  the  present,  and 
yet  with  the  strength,  the  sweetness,  and  the  technical  skill  of 
the  men  who  have  become  English  classics  —  this  is  what  the 
world  of  English-speaking  readers  has  been  awaiting  for  more 
than  a  generation.  .  .  .  Hence  the  appearance  is  noteworthy 
of  an  American  poet  with  a  work  which  places  him  in  the 
front  rank  of  poets  of  to-day,  and  which  makes  him,  in  my 
judgment,  the  rightful  claimant  to  the  place  left  vacant  by  the 
authors  of  '  Pippa  Passes  '  and  '  The  Idyls  of  the  King.'  This 
may  seem  to  be  high,  even  extravagant  praise,  but  when  one 
reads  carefully  these  three  books  of  verse,  there  can  be  no 
other  judgment  than  that  here  is  a  genius  whose  first  mature 
poem  gives  promise  of  splendid  creative  work  during  the  next 
decade.  .  .  .  They  form  a  drama  which  is  full  of  the  passion 
and  power  of  Browning,  yet  with  much  of  the  charm  of  Shakes- 
peare's plays.  At  first  blush  it  seems  presumptuous  in  a 
young  poet  to  attempt  the  theme  on  which  Tennyson  lavished 
his  best  powers ;  but  when  one  has  read  Mr.  Hovey's  poems 
he  sees  at  once  the  absolute  originality  of  the  younger  poet." 

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A  Poem  in  Dramas  fy RICHARD    HOVEY 

I.  The  QUEST  of  MERLIN.     A  Masque. 

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"The  Quest  of  Merlin"  shows  indisputable  talent  and  in- 
disputable metrical  faculty.  —  The  Athenaum,  London. 

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that  the  singer  is  master  of  the  technique  of  his  art ;  that  for 
him  our  stubborn  English  tongue  becomes  fluent  and  musical. 
.  .  .  Underlying  all  these  evidences  of  artistic  skill  is  a  deeper 
intent,  revealing  in  part  the  poet's  philosophy  of  being.  ...  — 
Washington  Post. 

"  The  Quest  of  Merlin "  has  all  the  mystery  and  exquisite 
delicateness  of  a  midsummer  night's  dream. —  Washington 
Republic. 

II.  The  MARRIAGE  of  GUENEVERE.     A 

Tragedy.     $1.50. 

It  requires  the  possession  of  some  remarkable  qualities  in 
Mr.  Richard  Hovey  to  impel  me  to  draw  attention  to  this 
"  poem  in  dramas  "  which  comes  to  us  from  America.  .  .  .  The 
volume  shows  powers  of  a  very  unusual  quality,  —  clearness 
and  vividness  of  characterization,  capacity  of  seeing,  and,  by  a 
few  happy  touches,  making  us  see,  ease  and  inevitableness  of 
blank  verse,  free  alike  from  convolution  and  monotony.  .  .  . 
If  he  has  caught  here  and  there  the  echo  of  other  voices,  his 
own  is  clear  and  full-throated,  vibrating  with  passionate  sensi- 
bility. —  HAMILTON  AIDE,  in  The  Nineteenth  Century,  London. 

There  are  few  young  poets  who  start  so  well  as  Mr.  Richard 
Hovey.  He  has  the  freest  lilt  of  any  of  the  younger  Ameri- 
cans. —  WILLIAM  SHARP,  in  The  Academy,  London. 

The  strength  and  flexibility  of  the  verse  are  a  heritage  from 
the  Elizabethans,  yet  plainly  stamped  with  Mr.  Hovey's  indi- 
viduality.—  CHARLES  G.  D!  ROBERTS,  in  The  Bookbuyer. 

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III.  The  BIRTH  of  GALAHAD.     A  Roman- 

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"  The  Birth  of  Galahad  "  is  the  finest  of  the  trilogy,  both  in 
sustained  strength  of  the  poetry  and  in  dramatic  unity. — 
GEORGE  HAMLIN  FITCH,  in  San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

It  is  written  with  notable  power,  showing  a  strong  dramatic 
understanding  and  a  clear  dramatic  instinct.  Mr.  Hovey  took 
his  risk  when  he  boldly  entered  Tennyson's  close,  but  we  can-/ 
not  see  that  he  suffers.  —  The  Independent,  New  York. 

Richard  Hovey  .  .  .  must  at  least  be  called  a  true  and  re- 
markable poet  in  his  field.  He  can  not  only  say  things  in  a 
masterly  manner,  but  he  has  something  impressive  to  say.  .  .  . 
Nothing  modern  since  the  appearance  of  Swinburne's  "Ata- 
lanta  in  Calydon  "  surpasses  them  [these  dramas]  in  virility 
and  classical  clearness  and  perfection  of  thought.  —  JOEL 
BENTON,  in  The  New  York  Times  Saturday  Review. 

IV.  TALIESIN.     A  Masque.     $1.00. 

"  Taliesin  "  is  a  poet's  poem.  As  a  part  of  the  "  Poem  in 
Dramas,"  it  introduces  the  second  trilogy,  and  prefigures  "  The 
Quest  of  the  Graal."  It  is  in  many  ways  the  author's  highest 
achievement.  It  is  the  greatest  study  of  rhythm  we  have  in 
English.  It  is  the  greatest  poetic  study  that  we  have  of  the 
artist's  relation  to  life,  and  of  his  development.  And  it  is  a 
significant  study  of  life  itself  in  its  highest  aspiration.  — 
CURTIS  HIDDEN  PAGE,  in  The  Bookman. 

No  living  poet  whose  mother-tongue  is  English  has  written 
finer  things  than  are  scattered  through  "  Taliesin." —  RICHARD 
HENRY  STODDARD,  in  The  Mail  and  Express,  New  York. 

It  is  sheer  poetry  or  it  is  nothing,  the  proof  of  an  ear  and  a 
voice  which  it  seems  ill  to  have  lost  just  at  the  moment  of 
their  complete  training.  In  his  death  there  is  no  doubt  that 
America  has  lost  one  of  her  best  equipped  lyrical  and  dra- 
matic poets.  —  EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN,  in  An  Amer- 
ican Anthology. 

For  sale  at  all  Bookstores,  or  sent  postpaid  by  the  publishers 

SMALL,  MAYNARD   6-   COMPANY  -  BOSTON 


Launcelot  &  Guenevere 

A  Poem  in  Dramas  by    RICHARD     HOVEY 

V.  The  HOLY  GRAAL.  Fragments  of  the  Five 
Unfinished  Dramas  of  the  Launcelot  & 
Guenevere  Series  (in  preparation).  $1.50. 

It  had  been  Mr.  Hovey's  intention  to  complete  his  notable 
Arthurian  Series  in  nine  dramas,  of  which  only  four  had  been 
published  at  the  time  of  his  death.  He  left  fragmentary  por- 
tions in  manuscript  of  all  the  remaining  five,  and  these  frag- 
ments have  been  edited  and  arranged,  with  notes,  by  his  widow, 
as  the  only  possible  attempt  toward  completion  of  this  match- 
less monument  of  American  verse. 

ALONG     THE     TRAIL 

A  Book  of  Lyrics  by    RICHARD    HOVEY 

i6mo,  brown  cloth,  gold  cover  decoration  by  Bertram  Gros- 
venor  Goodhue.    £1.50. 

Richard  Hovey  has  made  a  definite  place  for  himself  among 
the  poets  of  to-day.  This  little  volume  illustrates  all  his  good 
qualities  of  sincerity,  fervor,  and  lyric  grace.  He  sings  the 
songs  of  the  open  air,  of  battle  and  comradeship,  of  love,  and 
of  country,  —  and  they  are  all  songs  well  sung.  In  addition, 
his  work  is  distinguished  by  a  fine  masculine  optimism  that  is 
all  too  rare  in  the  poetry  of  the  younger  generation. —  Satur- 
day Evening  Post,  Philadelphia. 

As  a  whole  it  stands  the  most  searching  test — you  read  it 
again  and  again  with  constantly  increasing  pleasure,  satisfac- 
tion, and  admiration.  —  Boston  Herald. 

Mr.  Hovey  has  the  full  technical  equipment  of  the  poet,  and 
he  has  a  poet's  personality  to  express,  —  a  personality  new  and 
fresh,  healthy  and  joyous,  manly,  vigorous,  earnest.  Added 
to  this  he  has  the  dramatic  power  which  is  essential  to  a  broad 
poetic  endowment.  He  is  master  of  his  art  and  master  of  life. 
He  is  the  poet  of  joy  and  belief  in  life.  He  is  the  poet  of 
comradeship  and  courage. — CURTIS  HIDDEN  PAGE,  in  The 
Bookman. 

For  sale  at  all  Bookstores  ^  or  sent  postpaid  by  the  publishers 

SMALL,  MAYNARD   dr>   COMPANY  •  BOSTON 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


10  i. 
FEB  10  1919 


9  1928 


15 1938 


30m-6,'14 


and  balla 


Mar  24,19:3     Number 


:£3  10 


JG  r. 


ec 


13 


EP  97 
c-r  ^  / 


e   of  Loet  Haven 


'  LIBRARIES 





SEE-1 


25m-9,'12 


YC160562 


